


Hollow Men

by Thanatopsiturvy



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Brief Mentions of Suicide Ideation, Can It Be Considered a Spite Fic When I'm This Invested?, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Fix-It, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, PTSD, Recovery, Sympathetic Thalmor Characters, Thalmor (Elder Scrolls) - Freeform, Trauma and recovery, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27259723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanatopsiturvy/pseuds/Thanatopsiturvy
Summary: Time passed in the windowless Windhelm prison by only three distinct markers: the daily administration of magicka-suppressing poison, the forced feeding every two days, and the erratic but frequent visits from the Nord.Eventually, when Corimir had been forced to accept that the Thalmor would not authorize a rescue mission for a single captured soldier, death didn’t seem like such a terrible fate.----In which a prisoner of war is rescued, though hardly saved, learning that the path of recovery is not well-trodden, but a mess of brambles.
Relationships: Original Altmer Character(s)/Gwilin (Elder Scrolls)
Comments: 89
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story... needs a bit of a lengthy explanation. And I'm going to do my best to keep it brief. 
> 
> A couple of weeks ago, I read a fic that disturbed me so much that I literally could not stop thinking about it. (Why did I read it? Morbid curiosity, and we'll leave it at that.)  
> But in being unable to stop thinking about it, I thought of all the ways that I would have it rather ended. I fantasized about saving the nameless character that was the subject of abuse and torture. Of getting revenge on the awful character that subjected him to such treatment. I created a whole alternative ending to someone else's fanfic in my head. It was honestly kind of cringe of me, but it's 2020 and cringe culture is dead. 
> 
> And in the spirit of cringe culture being dead, I took pen to paper and wrote with a fury the likes of which I hadn't seen in... months! New characters blossomed before my eyes, became real, whole people, (which kind of made the original story even worse to look back on). But here we are.  
> I've wanted to try to write a Thalmor-sympathetic story for a while, mostly as a challenge to myself. And this gave me the perfect opportunity. 
> 
> I'm not going to link to the original fic or @ the creator. This isn't a callout. This is simply a response. 
> 
> To the owner of Kordin, if you ever read this: You inspire me in the strangest ways. I hate your character so much. It's impressive. So, in a sense, thank you for your stories. None of this would exist without them. (Also, I think I technically fuck up your timeline a bit with this?? But y'know... artistic liberties and all that. Also, sorry for what I do to Kordin eventually, but also not really).

Time passed in the windowless Windhelm prison by only three distinct markers: the daily administration of magicka-suppressing poison, the forced feeding every two days, and the erratic but frequent visits from  _ the Nord. _

Corimir knew he had a name. He’d heard it murmured distantly by the other guards who seemed as equally frightened by him as they were in awe of him. But he never remembered it. He’d trained his mind to go somewhere else while the Nord had his way. The pain of the violation, the humiliation, being utterly stripped of his personhood eventually became too much for him to fathom. He was just a thing to the Nord. Something to be used. So Corimir detached from his body, his reality. 

When he did, he dreamed of Summerset. 

He thought about the springtime Skywatch festivals that his parents had taken him to in childhood as his face was shoved roughly against the stone floor of the prison, as the scabs on his raw and bloody knees were torn open repeatedly, never properly allowed to heal. He thought of Shimmerene with its towering spires, the warm waters of the Abecean sea lapping softly at the rocky cliffs, as his body was forcibly entered again and again. 

Time passed and Corimir drifted further and further away. 

Eventually, when Corimir had been forced to accept that the Thalmor would not authorize a rescue mission for a single captured soldier, death didn’t seem like such a terrible fate.

Yet when the time came...

“You’ve been ordered to be executed,” one of the guards told him, and he nearly wept with relief. “But Kordin wants to do the honors.”

Relief was replaced by horror and despair so thick that Corimir knew it would follow him into the afterlife. He crawled away from the iron bars and the laughing guard, pulled himself into one of the dank corners of the cell and he propped himself against the stone, unable to hold himself up. With eyes unfocused, he resigned himself to wait for the inevitable, shivering in his prison rags. The burlap provided no real warmth, and even less dignity, though he was always ceremonially stripped of them before he was violated. 

Maybe he could kill himself before the Nord arrived: rob him of his final triumph. He glanced around the cell, but knew there was nothing. He’d tried before. Perhaps he could will himself into death, focusing solely on— 

The main door opened and his entire body jolted as he squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his knees even closer to his chest. He thought of Shimmerene and prayed to Auri-el to grant him peaceful rest in Aetherius. Warmth and kindness. Away from the terrors of war. 

A faceless guard strolled unhurriedly to his cell, unlocking the door and walking inside. Corimir refused to look at them, his mind already drifting to white shores. 

“Can you walk?” 

Her hushed voice pulled him back into reality, his cell rematerializing, and he blinked in surprise as he looked up. “What?” 

“Can you walk?” she repeated, kneeling beside him and pulling something from a small satchel. The clip of her accent washed over him like a warm seabreeze.

“You’re not a Nord,” he said, and his voice barely sounded like his own. His throat was raked raw from dehydration and screaming.

“We haven’t much time. I need you to drink this.” She handed him a small, white vial. “Invisibility. It should be extended, but it will still only give us twenty minutes to get you out of the city.” 

What was going on? Corimir took the vial and stared at it, wondering if his fantasies had really grown so desperate that he was hallucinating a kind Stormcloak with a voice like an Alinor songbird.

“Please,” she urged. “Please drink it. We’re running out of time.” 

It finally clicked. “You’re poisoning me,” he murmured, twisting the bottle thoughtfully between his fingers. “Thank you.” He brought the poison to his lips and eagerly drained it into his mouth. It tasted… pleasant, leaving a slight film on his tongue. 

At once his arms and legs disappeared. He let out a startled yelp. 

“Alright, good, now on your feet.” The Stormcloak was tugging at his invisible arms, pulling him upright. His legs wobbled like a newborn foal, but he stood nonetheless. 

“Stay close to me. I’m so sorry that you have to walk through the city in that. I promise I have proper clothes and a cloak for you in the carriage.” 

His invisible hand was guided to hook into the belt at her low back, and she began to walk. Corimir stumbled after her, the ache of his joints screaming with each step, his frozen, blistered feet like stepping on shards of glass, but he held fast to her belt. She led him briskly up the stone steps, passing a reclining guard at a desk with a simple wave of her hand. When she pushed through the final door, the icy blast of wind made Corimir gasp. The Stormcloak shushed him and marched onward. 

The brilliant light of the midday sun was blinding, even with the sky completely covered in a thick layer of white clouds. Corimir blinked and ducked his head, allowing himself to be pulled along. He wondered how long it had been already. She’d said something about the duration of the potion, but her words had sifted through his mind like sand through fingers. He was still partially convinced it was all a hallucination. He tore his eyes from the ground to look over the Stormcloak’s shoulder and immediately froze.

It was  _ him. _

The Nord was walking steadily towards him, a small smile stretched across his square face. There was someone trailing behind him, hidden by dark elf chitin armor. Corimir’s legs stiffened and locked into place, leaving him paralyzed with fear.  _ He can see me. He can see through the spell. He’s going to take me back down there—  _

The Stormcloak guard’s belt was jerked from his hand as she continued walking. Immediately she took a staggering step backwards, reaching blindly behind herself to grab onto his wrist. 

“Thane Kordin,” she said with a slight bow. Her beautiful accent had disappeared, replaced by something thick and Nordic. “Your prisoner awaits.” She tucked her other hand behind her back in an overly formal, soldierly posture, her spine ramrod straight. Slowly, she maneuvered Corimir’s hand back around her belt, gripping his fingers into a fist. 

“Perfect,” the Nord said, smiling like a sabercat. His teeth were yellow at the gums. He directed his attention to his companion, jerking his chin over his shoulder. “I’ll find you in the Gray Quarter. It probably won’t take too long, but sometimes I get carried away.” 

“Yes, serjo.” The Dunmer bowed and quickly took his leave. 

The Nord looked back. “At ease.” 

“Yes, sir,” the Stormcloak responded, dropping Corimir’s hands and letting her arms fall to her sides. “Enjoy, sir.” She spun on her heel, and Corimir was jerked back into motion. He tore his eyes away from the Nord and broke into a trot as the Stormcloak did, knowing now that they might not make it to the gate in time.

His breath was coming out in labored wheezes. His heart thudded against his ribcage while what little contents remained in his stomach threatened to project themselves across the Stormcloak’s back. Time seemed to move slower and slower, and he knew the Nord was already down in the cells. He’d discovered his whore was missing. He’d soon come after them. He could  _ see through the spell. _ Corimir knew he could. 

“Alright, nice and easy.” The Stormcloak spoke softly over her shoulder as the gate loomed above them. “We’re almost there. Hold tight— just a little longer.” 

Passing through the city walls felt like the first breath after a long dive beneath icy water. Corimir sucked in a stuttering, wet inhale, then pressed his hand to his mouth in terror as they passed a guard. The Stormcloaks nodded amicably to each other, but otherwise let them pass without comment. He was still invisible.  _ He was escaping. _

They were halfway across the bridge when a loud, booming crackle shook the ground beneath their feet. 

“Okay, now we run,” the Stormcloak said, reaching back to grab Corimir by the wrist before tearing across the bridge at a full sprint, tugging him helplessly along. Startled guards ignored her, running towards the city with alarmed cries.  _ It was him _ , Corimir thought.  _ He’s coming. _

Right as they reached the stables, the invisibility potion’s effect faded. Corimir gasped out a sob, pawing at the Stormcloak’s armor. 

“More!” he croaked. “Please. Hide me—” 

“Merciful Mara…” The stable owner, an Altmer with a Cyrodillic accent, was gawking at him. “Oh son, what did they do to you?” 

“Into the cart! In, in, in!” The Stormcloak was boosting him up into the carriage. He scrambled across the hard wooden planks, pressed himself flat up against the back wall. She’d turned back to the stable owner. “If they ask?” 

“The cart went west. Towards Whiterun.” 

“Exactly. Thank you.” 

“Get him somewhere warm.” 

“I will.” 

Corimir watched with wide eyes as the Stormcloak threw a large satchel onto the floor of the carriage and climbed in after him. “Go!” she bellowed at the driver, and the carriage lurched into motion with the crack of the reins. She steadied herself against the seat before kneeling down next to him, reaching up and removing her helmet. 

She was an Altmer. Was he dreaming? Her green eyes welled with pitiful emotion. “I’m so sorry,” she was saying. “I’m so sorry it took so long. I… When I first heard about you, I tried to work as fast as I could without raising alarm. I— Oh, divines, your  _ ear. _ ” Her voice hitched as she covered her mouth in horror. 

Corimir slowly reached up to touch his left ear. It still pulsed hot with infection where the delicate tip had been carved off with a jagged knife.  _ Something to remember you by while I’m away _ , the Nord had said. 

“Please, let’s get you dressed.” She began rummaging aggressively through her pack. Corimir felt… numb. Stunned into silent disbelief. The cart climbed the hill heading south and the Palace of the Kings rose from behind the Windhelm walls like a monolith. He watched the city slowly fade amidst the haze of snow. Then, as they crested the hill and began their descent, it dipped below the horizon and out of sight. He was prepared to awaken at any moment, still in his cell, moments away from being ripped out of his prison rags and violated before his execution.

“Here.” She was handing him a shirt. “Would you like help?” 

Corimir shook his head. He held the shirt in his hands for a long moment, running the soft fabric between his fingers before reaching down to tug the rags up and over his head. His nakedness barely bothered him: he was already frozen beyond the point of shivering and his dignity was long lost. He pulled the shirt on with a sigh, the fabric soft against his irritated skin. Next, he was handed smallclothes— another luxury. Wrestling into the cold pants proved difficult with his stiff legs, all bruises and scabs. Blood from his knees was seeping through the fabric by the time he’d tightened the belt. 

“Coat. And… hat,” his companion offered. “If it doesn’t hurt your ear.” 

“Thank you,” Corimir rasped, sliding his arms into the thickly lined fur coat. He kept the soft woolen cap cocked to the right, leaving his injured ear exposed. His companion pulled a final large cloak out of the satchel and shifted to sit down next to him, their backs pressed against the back wall of the carriage. She threw the cloak over their legs and aranged it in their laps before settling back with a sigh. 

“Fuck,” she declared crudely with a soft, weary chuckle, letting her head thunk back against the rough wood. Her hair was the color of a sun-softened peach, pulled up into a scraggly bun. Corimir could smell it— a gentle floral scent that triggered some hazy sense memory.

“What’s your name?” he croaked. 

She looked at him, a deep crease between her brows. “Elanwe. What’s yours?” 

“Corimir,” he replied, pulling the cloak up around his shoulders as he drew his knees to his chest. He’d begun to shiver again. 

“You need some water.” She slid from beneath the cloak, taking a moment to tuck it firmly around Corimir’s other shoulder before crawling across the floor of the carriage to dig through the satchel again. 

“Are you Thalmor?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, retrieving a waterskin and handing it to him. “I was in Windhelm for… Well, I was in Windhelm. When I heard they had Thalmor prisoners, I took an interest. Then, when I heard what they were doing to you…” 

Corimir took a long drink of water. It hit him like a kick in the gut, but he was  _ so thirsty. _

“Not too much,” Elanwe cautioned, reaching out to gently press the waterskin down and into his lap. “Pace yourself.” 

He didn’t need to be coddled. He hoped his scowl conveyed as much. The carriage jostled particularly hard over a rock and Corimir reached out to steady himself against the bench, feeling ill. Windhelm slid into view one final time, and Corimir swore he saw two riders on horseback tearing across the far bridge, heading west. He blinked and they were gone. 

“Where are we going?” 

“For tonight?” Elanwe resituated herself to sit next to him again, though she didn’t try to get back under the cloak. “Shor’s Stone. It’s the only thing that’s even  _ close _ to a settlement that still puts enough distance between us and Windhelm. But my goal is to get you to the Embassy.”

Divines help them. That was a long journey. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the carriage wall, swaying with the jostle of the wheels. 

“Where were you stationed?” 

Corimir reluctantly opened his eyes, his gaze unfocused. “Markarth.” He brought the waterskin back up to his lips, taking a small, measured sip. Unwanted memories from the night of his capture pushed into the front of his mind and he squeezed his eyes shut, letting out an involuntary groan. 

“I’m freshly promoted,” Elanwe hastily explained, apparently sensing his discomfort. “I was with the Bard’s college for about ten years. An attache, a cultural ambassador for the Dominion. One of the first in Skyrim after the White-Gold Concordat was signed.” She let out a small, tittering laugh like a bell. “I wasn’t terribly popular. But I taught history. Aldmeri arts and literature.”

Her babbling was nervous and unnecessary, but the gentle sing-song lilt of her voice nearly lulled Corimir to sleep. He hummed in response, unsure of what else to say. 

“Would you like to lie down?”

He forced his eyes back open to look at her. “How long will the carriage ride be?” 

“It’ll probably take us at least until nightfall to get there. Come.” She motioned for him to lie flat. “You should rest. I’ll watch over you.” 

The sentiment amused him, but Corimir didn’t have it in him to laugh. Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself onto the rough floor of the carriage. They were heading steadily uphill now, most likely beginning their slow ascent into the Northwind Mountains. Corimir tried to empty his head of geography and theoretical battle plans. His body was a cacophony of pain, throbbing every time the carriage’s wheels jarred a bit too roughly against the road. Elanwe made a pillow out of more clothing and tried to tuck it beneath his head. He flinched away from her hands, grunting and adjusting the pillow himself. 

Nothing felt real. He half-convinced himself to stay awake, fearing that he’d wake from whatever dream this might be if he let himself nod off. But soon, the swaying of the carriage and his slowly thawing body pulled him down into a light, fitful rest devoid of dreams. 

He awoke disoriented, stricken with fear as he attempted to regain his bearings. The sky was dark, the stars winking down at him from amidst the blinding borealis. Elanwe sat on one of the carriage seats, gazing out across the darkened landscape. An uncomfortable pressure in his bladder urged Corimir to sit up. He hissed in pain as his lower back contracted with a sharp stab of electricity. 

“Oh!” Elanwe was immediately kneeling next to him. “Do you need—” 

“Can we pull over?” 

She gave him a nervous look. “Why?” 

“I have to…” Divines, what did he say?  _ Woman, I have to piss? _ Was there any point in being polite anymore, after he’d been made to live like an animal? Fortunately, he didn’t have to say anything. Elanwe was already leaning over the wall of the carriage to speak to the driver and soon the carriage was slowing down and drifting towards the side of the road. 

“The horse could use a small break,” he heard the driver murmur. “Been hauling ass…”

Corimir gently lowered himself out of the back of the carriage and hobbled barefoot across the leaf-strewn ground, clutching his stomach. The ground was snow-less, and a warm wind blew through the pines from the south, but he still shivered uncontrollably. 

“Not too far!” Elanwe called after him. He didn’t respond, feeling utterly patronized. Fortunately, he  _ didn’t _ have to walk too far before he found a large boulder that hid him from the road. Once again, he wasn’t sure why he was trying to be proper. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen him pathetically naked mere hours earlier. 

He pulled himself free of his pants with a whimper. Everything was sore and raw. The piss burned its way out of him, too, his low back screaming all the while as he barely managed to hold himself up against the rock. He dreaded the inevitability of taking a shit, knowing he’d be ripped open again after barely any time to heal. He curled his hand into a fist against the boulder, biting his tongue against the wretched noise that threatened to spill out of him. He didn’t want to have a body. He didn’t want to exist.

He squeezed his breath out in one long, quavering exhale before gently tucking himself back into his pants and hobbling back towards the road. The driver was in the middle of covering the back of the wagon, stretching the large swath of canvas over wooden hoops. 

“I’ll get you proper shoes in Shor’s Stone,” Elanwe said as Corimir climbed back into the carriage. He said nothing in response, lying back down and pulling the cloak up around his shoulders. The driver finished securing the cover and soon the carriage lurched back into motion. 

Corimir lay awake for what felt like hours, staring at the warped wood grain of the carriage seat as he was jostled back and forth. Elanwe remained silent, reclined on the bench with her legs outstretched over top of him to rest on the opposite side. 

He must have dozed off at some point, for when he awoke the carriage had stopped and he was alone, the back flap pulled shut. There were soft voices speaking in low tones somewhere nearby, the crackle and warm flickering light of a campfire, the sound of someone chopping wood. Slowly, painfully, Corimir inched his way towards the canvas flap and poked his head out. The carriage had been pulled off the road a ways, but they seemed to be nestled in the center of a small settlement. Shor’s Stone, Elanwe had said. There was a small campfire off to the left where Elanwe, the carriage driver, and a human woman sat huddled around a cooking pot. Elanwe was spooning the contents into a bowl, saying something to the other woman, who laughed in response. It made Corimir’s gut twist, both from hunger and unnamed anger. He crawled back into the carriage, huddling up against the far wall and pulling his knees to his chest. Soft footfall approached. 

“Oh.” Elanwe’s head peaked through the flap. “You’re awake.” Corimir let his head fall forward with a sigh, resting the bridge of his nose against his knees. “I brought you some food.” He didn’t look up. “I’m sure you’re hungry.” Another long pause in which she waited. He curled his hands into fists, taking a long, deep inhale. He heard the bowl being placed somewhere near him and the rustle of the flap being pulled closed. The footsteps retreated.

After a few more moments of stubborn silence, Corimir shifted enough to glance to the side. The bowl of unidentifiable food had small tendrils of steam curling from its surface. He watched it for a moment longer before hesitantly reaching out and pulling it into his lap. It smelled of onions and garlic. He filled the small ladle and held it up for inspection before flipping it over and letting the contents plop back into the bowl. Some potatoes, maybe some cabbage. Peasant’s food. It was better than anything he’d had in…

How long had he been a captive? He wasn’t sure. What was the last date he could remember? Trying to procure an answer soured his stomach and he put the bowl down. Maybe he didn’t want to know— shouldn’t put a date to the time spent in that cell being poisoned and starved and raped. 

He pulled the cloak up high around him once again, bringing his knees back to his chest. Yes… He had been raped, hadn’t he? Repeatedly. Mercilessly. It felt strange to apply the term to himself. That was not what he had been taught. Soldiers were not raped. 

The whole carriage smelled of garlic now and Corimir’s stomach growled angrily. With a forceful exhale he grabbed the bowl again and brought a spoonful of the slop to his cracked lips. He blew gently before taking a small taste. 

It was… delicious. With a whimper he pulled the full spoon into his mouth, holding it there, breathing steadily through his nose—  _ tasting. _ When he swallowed, it was as though a ball of heat were traveling down the centerline of his body, rippling into his extremities. It caused gooseflesh to erupt down his arms and legs, prickling painfully around the scabs. He took another bite, pressing the flat of his tongue against the bottom of the spoon, squeezing his eyes shut. He turned it into a small ritual so that his mind could focus on nothing else, only the taste of the onions and potatoes, garlic and… spice? Leek? Something mild and earthy. 

By his fifth spoonful, he’d begun to weep without really knowing why. He shook with small, silent sobs as he continued to slowly spoon the food into his mouth. It was a wretched feeling that carried with it something bittersweet— a release. Relief. He was  _ out. _ It wasn’t a dream. He’d survived. 

Too soon, the bowl was empty and his tears had dried up. He was left feeling bewildered, a bit foolish, and utterly exhausted. He set the empty bowl near the back of the carriage and shuffled to lie down. The carriage floor was rough, but he was tired. It was better than a stone floor. 

Sleep evaded him for a while longer as Corimir blinked up at the canvas covering. Something small and fragile had awoken inside of him— something that had been driven dormant. In that quiet moment, kept company only by the distant crackle of the fire and the occasional hoot of the night birds, he solidified what remained of his resolve. No matter what came to pass, no matter how difficult the road ahead might be, he would never,  _ ever _ again surrender. He would sooner die. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that the shock has worn off a bit, we get to see Corimir's personality a little better. 
> 
> He's an asshole. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Thanks so much to jottingprosaist for being such a fantasic beta!

If Elanwe slept in the carriage that night, Corimir didn't notice. He awoke to the sound of a horse neighing and the carriage slowly rolling forward. At first he panicked, sitting up so fast that white spots burst before his eyes. Then Elanwe clambered into the back of the carriage. She offered him a far-too-cheery smile, gesturing to the animal pelts draped over her arm. 

“I got these for you! So we can make you a proper bed in this old thing. Also…” She set the pelts down to hold up a pair of soft-soled leather boots. “Hopefully they fit.” 

“Thank you,” Corimir murmured reflexively. 

“Did you want some breakfast?” She picked up a small bowl. “I have some boiled oats—” 

“Were you told to rescue me?”

Elanwe’s expression faltered. The carriage jostled her sideways and she sat down, holding the bowl out to steady it. “Well… No, not exactly.”

“Then why?” 

She rested the bowl in her lap, silently holding Corimir’s gaze for a long moment. The carriage wheels hit cobblestone. “I couldn’t just leave you there,” she nearly whispered.

Anger bubbled hot in his gut, sharp and acidic. “So you’re dragging me across this wretched, godless land simply because you decided to? You didn’t even have orders?”

“Dragging…” Elanwe scowled. “I’m saving you! I did save you!” 

“Oh yes, my blessed savior. An attaché from the  _ Bard’s College.” _

Elanwe’s scowl deepened. “Do you realize I’m breaking rank for you? That I’m adding possible days to my journ—” 

“I didn’t  _ ask _ you to do that!” he exploded. “I didn’t  _ ask _ for—!” His voice broke and he buried his face in his hands, tugged viciously at his scraggly hair. His throat had tightened to the point that his next inhale was more of a stuttering wheeze. 

“H-hey… Come now, none of that.” Elanwe’s voice had softened. She slid down onto the floor of the carriage, tucking her knees beneath her. “Don’t…” She tried to pull Corimir’s hands away from his hair, but he jerked away from her with a vicious snarl. She quickly folded her hands in her lap, looking away. A long moment of silence followed as the carriage continued to lumber onwards. The horse snorted loudly and it occurred to Corimir, then, that the driver could probably hear them. 

Finally, Elanwe inhaled, licked her lips, then said: “I didn’t mean to be cross. You… You’re right. You didn’t ask for me to do this. It was my choice. And I can’t imagine—” She stopped herself, then cleared her throat. “Would… Did you want the boiled oats?” 

Corimir looked up, annoyed. She returned the look with a pained smile and a shrug, reaching for the bowl and offering it to him once again. With a sigh, he took it. The oats had become a thick paste and his throat was almost too tight to properly swallow, but he ate a few mouthfuls. 

“I don’t know how long I can go without a healer,” he said after struggling through another bite. “I feel… damaged. Internally, I mean.”

A brief look of horror washed across Elanwe’s face. “We… There’s a temple of Mara in Riften—” 

“Not Riften,” Corimir snapped. He took a slow breath through his nose. “He— the  _ Nord _ . He has people there. It would be too dangerous.”

“Do you know any healing magic?” 

Corimir gave a non-committal nod. “Some. But I’d rather not accidentally knit the wrong organs back together.” 

Elanwe hiccuped and looked away. “That’s a fair point, I suppose…” She chewed at her lip. “The next settlement after Riften is Ivarstead. It’ll take us at least three days to get there. And the carriage stops at Riften.” She turned back to him. “I was planning on buying a horse, so at least—” 

“They gave you quite a bit of coin for your mission.” He narrowed his eyes, resting the bowl in his lap. He let the statement hang in the air between them, waiting to see if Elanwe might confess anything. She met his gaze with a cool, neutral expression, and  _ there _ , finally, was the Thalmor agent. Not some blathering college attaché.

“I’m using my own coin to buy the horse.” 

Corimir shrugged, scooping another bit of pasty oats onto the spoon. “A horse would be as burdensome as it would be beneficial. If you’re doing this on my account—” 

“I would have bought the horse regardless,” she interrupted, her tone icy. Corimir almost pointed out that she most likely wouldn’t even be taking this route were it not for him, but felt he’d already pushed her generosity to its limits in their conversation. That, and he was still unsure of her rank. ‘Recently promoted’ told him very little. She seemed green and far too trusting. Still, she could easily be his superior, especially if she had been sent to Windhelm. 

“Thank you for the oats,” he said instead. “They taste like shit.” 

Elanwe laughed, running a hand across her eyes, and the tension in the air cleared faster than a summer storm. “I’m going to get more supplies in Riften. You can wait outside the city, if you’d prefer.” 

“I wouldn’t prefer, but I must.” He set the bowl aside and reached down to wrap his hands around a foot. His well of magicka was still shallow and weak from the extended poisoning, but he could at least try to heal the swelling and blisters so he could properly walk. “And what awaits us after Ivarstead?”

“Well, I actually have business there. Please, let me put the furs down. It’s another three or so hours to Riften. At least let me make you comfortable.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Corimir ground out through clenched teeth, pushing himself off the floor to sit on one of the benches. He winced as the shift brought with it a sharp sting of pain— something being re-torn. By Auri-El, would his body ever be the same again? 

Elanwe quickly padded the floor with the animal pelts, her hair half-fallen from its already haphazard bun. She patted the floor with a self-satisfied smile once she was done, and Corimir had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. He slid back down with a grunt, immediately dipping into his magicka reserves to call upon his basic Restoration abilities. 

After only a few moments of casting, Corimir was exhausted and dizzy. His feet felt mildly less sore, though the blisters had barely thickened and his smaller toes were pallid and raw from frostbite. He gently pinched one between his thumb and index finger, the cuticles red and puffy, and wondered distantly if he might lose them. 

“I’ll see if I can find an alchemist in Riften as well,” Elanwe offered. “Purchase a few healing draughts.” 

“With your endless supply of coin,” he mumbled, shifting back onto his elbows in an attempt to lie down. He wasn’t sure why he was being so cruel. The woman was being kind, trying to help him. But he couldn’t fathom showing her kindness in return, or if he was even capable of it now. 

Elanwe let out an excessively loud exhale and resituated herself on the bench. Corimir closed his eyes and focused on his breath. The small bit of magic had taken the edge off, but his body still throbbed: a deep, diffuse ache that seemed to travel through every nerve. At least the sharpness was gone. 

Once again, he drifted into a light, uneasy sleep. 

He had a brief, strange dream that he was a worker in some sort of ancient temple, assisting with its construction. It was massive— made of dark wood with long, thin windows. Dappled light streaked across the warped floor boards, dancing and shimmering with the movement of leaves in the wind. There was an abundance of greenery outside, the sound of birdsong echoing in the distance, but he was focused on the task before him: hammering away at the pylons. His head was filled with the dull, persistent hammering—  _ thunk, thunk, thunk _ . 

The dream blurred and disintegrated, and he realized he was hearing the sounds of the horse’s hooves on the cobbled road. He groaned and rolled onto his back, throwing an arm across his eyes. Sweat beaded along the back of his neck and beneath his arms, dampening the collar of his shirt. He heard Elanwe stir but she remained silent. 

“How long did I sleep?” he asked after a moment. 

A brief pause. “About two hours, give or take.” 

Corimir groaned, knowing it would probably be a long while before he got any true rest. Sleeping in fits and starts was almost as exhausting as not sleeping at all. He somehow felt  _ worse _ every time he woke up. 

“Here.” He uncovered his eyes to see Elanwe offering him the waterskin. “Drink.” 

The water was cool and almost sweet. She’d probably boiled it the night before. As Corimir took another long drink, he began to feel shame for his rudeness thus far. Elanwe had been nothing but kind and patient with him. His parents had raised him to be better. He may have lost his dignity, but surely the beasts of this land couldn’t strip him of his pedigree. 

He dabbed his mouth on the back of his sleeve before handing the waterskin back. “I’m sorry.” It came out as more of a sigh than a sentence. “Sorry if I’ve seemed… ungrateful. I’m incredibly grateful for—” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, sitting up more fully. “For everything, really. Truly, I am. I’m just—” 

“No, please,” Elanwe interrupted him. “You don’t have to explain.” She smiled and it was laced with saccharine pity. 

Corimir almost took his words back. Instead, he forced a thin smile in return and attempted to cast another Restoration spell on his feet. They’d be making the rest of the journey on foot in less than an hour. At this point, he could only pray he retained all of his toes.

—

Corimir huddled near the southern Riften gate, holding the reins of a rather sluggish black horse. The thing was one of the most massive creatures he’d ever laid eyes on and seemed to constantly be on the verge of sleep. Even now, its eyes slid closed while they waited for Elanwe to finish with her business. Corimir let out a soft huff of amusement, rearranging the thing’s forelock so it lay flat. The horses of Skyrim were nothing like the ones in Summerset. They were stocky and thick with hooves the size of pie plates. Yet they were much calmer. Sturdier. As a child Corimir had been afraid of Alinor stallions, despite their fierce beauty. They had been wild and unpredictable. The horse falling asleep beside him was the exact opposite. 

The city gates opened and he startled, shifting to put the horse between him and the road. 

“It’s me!” Elanwe called out, and Corimir peered around the horse’s massive head. The pack slung across her back looked comically large, bulging with new supplies. Pots and pans clanged against one another as she stepped spryly over and slung the pack to the ground with a grunt. 

“Quite the haul,” Corimir murmured. 

“Now you see why I wanted the horse,” she panted, smiling up at him cheekily as she began to dig through a smaller side bag. “I got you a few things. Firstly.” She handed him a rather hefty opaque red vial. “Drink,” she insisted. “Maybe just sips throughout the day. It was the strongest one they had, but I could only afford to get one.”

Corimir inspected the chicken-scratch label of the healing draught with narrowed eyes. It certainly boasted expensive ingredients, but he supposed the actual quality remained to be seen. He broke the seal, pulled out the cork, and took a tentative first sip, immediately scrunching up his nose. “Uck!” 

“That’s how you know it’s good,” Elanwe laughed. “The best healing potions always taste the worst.”

“Is that so?” Corimir attempted to take another sip and felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He coughed and re-corked the bottle, tucking it beneath his arm. “Thank you,” he croaked. Despite the vile taste, warmth began to spread through his body, tingling into his feet. 

“I also got you a change of clothes, as well as…” She dug further down into the bag, the pink tip of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth. “This!” With a triumphant flourish, she procured something lumpy and grey that smelled vaguely of lavender. 

Corimir pulled his hands to his chest, wrinkling his nose. “What is it?” 

“It’s soap!” She held it to her nose and inhaled. “It smells fantastic. I figured you’d probably like a bath.” 

“Where would I bathe?” 

Elanwe blinked at him in puzzlement, then gestured to the river behind him.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“I’m sorry. There aren’t really many other options right now.”

Corimir let out a long sigh. The water was probably freezing, too. “Let’s… make some progress first.” 

“Certainly.” Elanwe began to hastily lash her bag to the horse. “Did you want to ride? I’m sure your feet could—” 

“No,” Corimir snapped. “Walking is fine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I said no!”

Frustration clouded Elanwe’s expression like a thunderhead. She pursed her lips as she finished securing the belongings before snatching the reins from Corimir’s outstretched hand and leading the horse down the road. Corimir hobbled along on the opposite side, taking another quick swig of the vile healing potion before tucking it into a pouch on Elanwe’s massive pack. 

They walked along in silence. The sun wasn’t quite at its peak in the sky, yet the air was already significantly warmer than anything Corimir had yet experienced in Skyrim. The trees whispered in the gentle winds that blew off the water, their leaves so vibrantly golden it was as if they’d stolen rays from the sun itself. He took a deep breath, reaching out to place one hand on the horse’s massive shoulder. It was warm— powerful muscles shifting beneath the thick black coat. 

“What should we name him?” came Elanwe’s voice from the other side of the beast. 

The question seemed so strangely out of place that Corimir had a difficult time understanding what she was referring to. “The horse?” 

“Yes, the horse.” She laughed and Corimir chewed at the inside of his cheek.

“Horse,” he suggested sourly. 

“No, really.”

“I’m serious.” 

“You can’t just name a horse ‘Horse’,” Elanwe insisted, utterly peeved. It almost brought a smile to Corimir’s lips. 

“Says who?” He patted Horse’s shoulder. “I think it’s a practical name. Descriptive.”

“You’re awful,” she declared, and Corimir  _ did _ smile at that. It felt… strange. He thought about it for too long and the feeling faded; the smile slid from his face. He had nothing to be smiling about. Especially not a stupid horse. 

Elanwe sighed loudly. “Horse it is, then.”

Corimir cleared his throat, pulling his hand from Horse’s shoulder and tucking both beneath his arms. They lapsed into a long silence once more. 

After an hour of walking, they were safely away from the city and hadn’t passed a single soul on the road. They came to a stone bridge where a small stream branched off from Lake Honrich and wound its way into the woods. It was secluded enough for Corimir to agree to clean himself up a bit. 

Elanwe stood watch by the road as he took the soap, a roughspun towel, and the change of clothes that had been purchased for him, and wandered down the stream a ways until he found a dip in the water deep enough to bathe in. Slowly, reluctantly, he began to peel away his clothes. The air was warm but gooseflesh immediately sprung up wherever his bare skin met the air. 

He was covered with more grime than he’d realized. And wounds. Small bruises and abrasions dappled his body— the palms of his hands, his forearms and elbows, along his spine, etched across his sternum, the sharp points of his hip bones— anywhere the unforgiving stone floor would grind while he was… 

He stepped out of his smallclothes and waded quickly into the water, clenching his jaw against the cold. It felt like running through Windhelm all over again. His toes throbbed painfully, and his joints and muscles screamed as he quickly splashed water up onto his shoulders and around his neck, before skittering back up onto the bank. Teeth chattering, he lathered the soap between his palms and began to run it over his arms and torso. The suds turned a muddy brown as he worked, moving down his legs and to his feet. 

He drew in a slow breath through his nose before tentatively reaching behind himself. The soap stung terribly and he let out a low whimper as he forced himself to clean where he’d been most violated. The ache was so much deeper than just the superficial cuts and tearing. He felt bruised up inside. Irreparably damaged. 

He quickly waded back into the river, lowering himself down into the shallow pool. The water felt like a relief— a distraction. He couldn’t think beyond the freezing cold and the ache that followed. 

His pale, silk-fine hair was tangled beyond help, the ends matted into a series of knots. He’d have to cut it.

After toweling off and donning the new clothes, Corimir felt surprisingly warmer than he had in months. He wandered back out to the road still squeezing the water from his hair with the towel. 

“I need your help,” he said as he approached Elanwe. “I need you to cut my hair.” 

She looked startled. “Why?” 

“It’s ruined. Look.” He held up the damp, tangled ends. “Just trim it to my chin. It’ll grow back.”  _ It’ll grow back. _ Yes, that’s how hair worked. And despite knowing this to be true, for whatever reason, Corimir felt as though it might not this time. 

He sat down on one of the small rock walls off the side of the road, staring resolutely forward while Elanwe drew her dagger. The surface of Lake Honrich rippled in a swift breeze. She took his hair into her fist, pulling it taught, and— 

Corimir’s entire body seized in panic. He lurched forward, smacking her hands away and causing her to yelp in alarm. He ran.

“What is wrong with you!?” she called after him.

Corimir was already halfway to the water’s edge, pulse pounding in his ears, his entire body flushed. For a brief moment, his pain had disappeared, and all he wanted to do was keep running— harder and faster than he’d ever run before in his life. 

He made it to the bank and dropped into a squat, burying his face in his hands. A part of his consciousness hovered just outside of his body, looking down at him, watching. He was acting like a child.  _ Just let her cut your fucking hair. _

He heard her soft footfalls approach. “Give me the dagger,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

“I can be more gentle if you just tell me what to do…” 

_ “Give me the dagger,” _ he repeated through clenched teeth. 

The hilt was pressed into his hand and he immediately grabbed the most knotted parts of his hair and began to saw. His hair was still wet and the dagger was dull. It took longer than he would have liked. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and his throat threatened to swell shut as he slowly hacked away at his hair, his eyes never leaving the water. 

After the last knotted locks had fallen, he stood abruptly, handed Elanwe her dagger, and marched back towards the road. Horse was tied to a small sapling near the bridge, his head held low and eyes half-lidded. Corimir tore open Elanwe’s pack for the healing potion and took three long gulps, gagging loudly after the third. He re-corked the bottle, stowed it, and pressed his forehead to Horse’s withers, taking several deep breaths. Horse sighed and shifted his weight. He heard Elanwe approaching behind him, her footfalls slow and deliberate. 

“I’m… going to wash up. Just a little. Shouldn’t take long. Are you alright to stand guard?” 

“Yes,” Corimir rasped with his face pressed to Horse’s side. He forced himself to pull away, to meet her gaze. 

He wished he hadn’t. She had that  _ look _ in her eyes— that pitiful, bleeding-heart look one reserves for a wounded animal or a child that had fallen and scraped their knee. He wanted to scream at her, to demand she wipe that look from her face. He was a Thalmor soldier. He had trained under the finest commanders that the Dominion had to offer. He was  _ well _ on his way to being promoted to Justiciar. His father had fought in the First War. His mother’s mother was Kinlady of Lillandril.  _ Nobody _ , especially not some no-named  _ expat _ from the Bards College, should ever look at him like  _ that. _

“Yes,” he repeated, curling his hands into fists.

— 

They made camp as the sky was beginning to fade golden, the shadows of the trees stretching like spindly fingers across the leaf-dappled ground. The lake had narrowed as they followed its banks, morphing into a wide, slow-moving river. They found a rocky alcove just out of sight of the main road, but not too deep into the wilderness that they might have become lost. Elanwe did most of the work setting up camp: constructing the lean-to, digging a shallow cooking pit then lining it with thick rocks, setting up the spit. She sent Corimir off to gather sticks and dry leaves, praising him as if he were a clever child when he returned with an armful. (As if he hadn’t been specifically trained to handle Skyrim’s harsh environment in just this way). He dumped them by the fire pit before retreating into the woods to get more, regardless of how his low back burned from the constant stooping and the aches in his joints and feet were beginning to return. He was reluctant to drink any more of the healing potion that night, opting to save it for when they set out tomorrow. He felt as though he’d gulped down too much already.

When he returned from his second foray, the camp was almost completely assembled. Horse was grazing sluggishly where he was lashed to a thin birch. The beast could have easily snapped the tree in half, Corimir thought. Yet he likely wouldn’t. 

Elanwe gave him an encouraging smile as he added some thicker logs and branches to the pile, but kept the accolades to herself this time. 

“One last thing before I get some food started.” She tossed him her empty water skin and he barely managed to catch it without fumbling. “Fill that one up, and there’s another empty canteen in my pack. We’ll boil them after supper and the water should be nice and cool by morning.” 

The sky was fading to a dusky pink as Corimir trudged out to the water. Lights flickered on the far shore, glimpses of the Rift’s outer farms and settlements. A cow lowed in the distance, followed by a second. The chirp of the nightly insects has swollen into a symphony of call-and-response, echoing off the rock and wood. For a brief moment, as he knelt by the river, Corimir was awash with an incredible sense of calm. He let his fingers dip beneath the surface to fill the canteens, savoring the sensation of the cold, clear water. 

It would be easy to drown himself. He could wait until Elanwe was asleep, then fill his pockets with stones… 

He jerked his hands from the water and banished the thought from his mind. 

Returning to their camp, he handed Elanwe the cantines with shaking hands. “Is there anything else I can help with?” he asked, hoping it didn’t sound too forced.

She quirked a brow at him as she rubbed salt into a thick cut of venison. “Can you get the fire started?” 

He bit his tongue against the snide retort that threatened to bubble out.  _ Could he get the— _ Who in bloody Oblivion did she even think he was? “I’ll certainly try my best,” he replied with a sneer and a curtsy. She laughed, which only served to infuriate him further. 

He crouched down by the pit, stacking the logs the way he’d been taught— stuffing the innermost chamber with the dried leaves and small twigs. He neatly arranged the smaller branches around the stacked logs, then rolled up his sleeves and blasted the wood with a fireball spell. 

“Whoa!” Elanwe cried out in alarm, topping sideways and holding up her hand against the heat. “Take it easy will you?” 

“Fire’s started.” 

“I can fucking see that.” She shook her head with another laugh, righting herself. She flipped the venison over to salt the other side, still chuckling. 

“You curse like a sailor,” Corimir pointed out as he lowered himself gently to the ground, hissing when something in his low back twinged. “It’s unbecoming of a woman of your rank and stature.” 

“Oh, mustn't appear unbecoming, now,” she mocked, her accent turning into something even more posh. She hung one of the pots on the spit and tossed a few spring onions into it. “Here, in fuck-all Skyrim, where my reputation is most certainly at stake.” She turned to Corimir with a scandalized look, placing a hand on her chest. “What might the wolves say!?”

Corimir’s scowl deepened and he crossed his arms over his chest, pressing his lips firmly together. Elanwe puttered about their small camp, unaffected by his sour mood. She hummed to herself as she poked at the fire and flicked water into the pot to test the heat. Soon, she was singing: 

_ My star-eyed bride of Alinor _ _  
_ _ Lost in storm and spray _ __  
_ My star-eyed bride of Alinor _ _  
_ __ That cruel fate took away

Her voice was like a chapel bell— as clear as a tide pool. Corimir  _ hated _ it. It reminded him of breezy, cloudless days spent lying beneath a willow, soft sunlight warming his skin. Of his mother. Of home. 

He wished he’d never left.

Elanwe added the salted meat to the pot and his stomach rumbled loudly as it sizzled and popped. He tried not to look too interested when she handed him a small plate after crudely dicing it for him. He muttered his thanks regardless and ate half of it. His appetite had returned in full, but his stomach still clenched painfully around the food, so he stared longingly at the remaining greasy bites before electing to save them for an hour from now.

“What business do you have in… Ivarstead, was it?” 

Elanwe held up a finger as she finished chewing, swallowed loudly, then said: “Classified.” 

Corimir huffed, picking the seared fat off one of the remaining pieces and sucking it between his lips.  _ Figured. _ “Well, how long might it take?” 

She gave him an apologetic look before averting her eyes. “Possibly a few days. Hopefully no more than a week.” 

“A week!?” 

“I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you more.” 

“What am I supposed to do for a week!?”

She shrugged. “Well, I’m hoping the village will at least have a healer that can work with you. But otherwise think of it as a small… leave. A respite. Some time for you to rest and recover.” She motioned with a greasy finger. “And you’ll have to look after Horse.” 

“Why can’t you look after Horse?” he argued, feeling particularly petulant. 

She sighed loudly, popping the final piece of meat into her mouth and speaking as she chewed. “I’ll explain as much as I can once we’re there.” She swallowed. “But let’s get there first, alright?”

Corimir bit his tongue against saying anything else. He picked at the remainder of the meat on his tin plate and managed to eat the rest of it without his stomach cramping up again. A small personal victory, at least. He helped Elanwe break down the cooking pit after they’d finished boiling the water he’d collected. After taking two disgusting sips of the healing draught, Corimir shuffled into his bed roll with a sigh as the sharp pains throughout his body dimmed to a tolerably dull ache. 

—

He jerked awake in the dead of the night, his body shimmering with muted agony. There were voices in the distance: men speaking in low tones. The flicker of torchlight off the branches of the trees above them. Corimir’s heart squeezed into his throat as panic gripped him like the tightening of a noose. He clawed his way across the ground towards Elanwe, shaking her from her sleep. She jolted with a grunt, trying to sit upright, but Corimir pressed a hand over her mouth. 

“They found us! They— ” He paused, holding his breath, listening. The voices were still audible above the low trill of the nightly insects. “It’s him.” 

Elanwe pried Corimir’s hand from her mouth. “What?” She blinked up at him in frustration, propped up on her elbows. She cocked her head to the side, listening. A man laughed, low and deep. “Let me go have a look.” 

“No!” Corimir whispered shrilly, pressing at her shoulders, trying to push her back down. “Do you have any more invisibility potions?” 

“Corimir, just let me go look.” She was trying to get up.

“Stop! Stop, please.” He curled his fists into the front of her shirt, his breath coming out in a labored wheeze. The dull ache had risen to a sharp throb, pulsing somewhere behind his eyes, burning through his low back and gut. “Don’t—!”

“Hey, hey… Shh…” She was pulling him towards her, running a hand through his hair. He covered his own mouth, choking down a sob that threatened to tear its way from his throat. “Shush, shh. Come here…” 

He tried to curl into a ball as she cradled his head against her, one arm looped around his upper back. He released her shirt and pulled both hands to his chest, locking them into fists beneath his chin. He couldn’t hear the voices anymore over the sound of his pulse, or see the flicker of their torch light with his head turned towards Elanwe’s breast. She had begun to slowly rock back and forth, one hand still running through his hair. If he’d felt like a child before, the feeling had since doubled, and he was torn as to whether or not he should allow this to continue.

Then she began to hum. 

It was the soft tune from before:  _ The Star-Eyed Bride of Alinor _ , pitched lower and vibrating through her chest. It  _ hurt. _ His vision blurred and hot tears began to stream from the corners of his eyes. 

“Stop this at once,” he whispered against her shift, sniffing loudly. She ignored him and continued, tilting her head to press her cheek to the top of his head, still stroking his hair. 

It felt… sublime, to be held. To be touched and caressed so gently. It sent rippling shivers down his spine, prickles of warmth and pleasure. 

The steady trickle of silent tears relinquished as Elanwe continued to hum. There were no voices, no flickering torches. They’d probably just been nighttime travelers, Corimir realized now. Perhaps caravanners. As the panicked fog of his sleep-addled mind began to finally clear, he felt like an utter fool. 

“How about we lie down?” Elanwe suggested, her voice too gentle. 

“I think I’ve bothered you enough for one evening,” Corimir replied, sniffing and swallowing as he pulled away. “I apologize.”

“Nonsense. Just pull your bedroll over. I’d like the extra heat, if it’s alright with you.” 

The old Corimir would have made a joke then. He would have said something lewd or suggestive. The old Corimir might have already tried to bed her by now. But the old Corimir was dead— decaying in some dank corner of a cold prison cell beneath a snow-covered city. The new Corimir, the damaged, frightened husk of a mer, simply blinked at her. “You don’t have to…” 

She just smiled. 

They pushed their bedrolls together, and Corimir fell asleep to the trill of crickets and a warm arm looped around his waist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to see some of my art of Corimir, [here's was the first sketch I did of him.](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/605610821359370242/766305685587623946/image0.png)
> 
> Here's also [him looking cool](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/657703007210700810/771920803032727552/image0.png) and [him looking not so hot.](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/605610821359370242/766846770104893461/image0.png)
> 
> Also, here's [Elanwe!](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/605610821359370242/766387118376747078/image0.png)
> 
> And [the two of them together, having a snuggle.](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/605610821359370242/767214429317758986/image0.png)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corimir gets a bit of a reprieve. 
> 
> Thank you again JP for being such a phenomenal beta reader! <3

Ivarstead was a pathetic excuse for a village. Then again, Corimir wasn’t quite sure what he expected. 

“Watch it, elf,” a guard grunted as they passed. His accent made Corimir’s pulse spike into his throat. He shuffled closer to Horse, keeping one hand firmly pressed against his broad, warm neck. 

“I’m going to run into the inn real quick and see if I can get any information on a local healer,” Elanwe told him. “Did you want to stay out here?” 

“Yes.” 

She gave him a slightly worried look, but forced a smile. “Alright. It’ll just be a few moments.”

He pulled Horse off the main road and dug through their pack for the last dregs of the healing potion. It was gritty, the sediment of the ingredients clinging to the sides of the bottle as Corimir tried to swallow it down. People were watching him. He could feel their eyes— guards or peasants, it mattered not. He wanted more than anything to be invisible again. He pressed his forehead to Horse’s neck and took several long, deep breaths, counting them as he went. When he got to eleven, Elanwe’s voice pulled him back to the present. 

“Fucking barbarians,” she was grumbling. “Not a single gods-damned healer in this shithole.” 

Corimir couldn’t help but laugh hoarsely, leaning back to throw a glance her way. “You really do curse a lot.” 

“Bad habit,” she sighed, pushing her hair out of her face with a frustrated huff. “I don’t do it around my superiors, don’t worry.” 

Corimir’s stomach twisted in a different way at that. So she  _ was _ higher rank than him. He cleared his throat, straightening up. “What do you suggest then?”

She sighed again, her brow drawn tight in frustration. “Well, I can either set you up with a room in the inn, or we can make camp for you somewhere nearby. Like I said, my business should take at least two to three days. Hopefully no more than that, though it’s hard to say.” 

“What business could you possibly have here?” A rooster let out a loud crow at that moment, as if to punctuate Corimir’s question. 

“It’s…” Elanwe looked nervous.”My business isn’t in Ivarstead. It’s… up there.” 

Corimir turned, followed the point of her finger, eyes sliding up, up, and up the steep mountain face to their north, its summit obscured by thick cloud cover. He looked back at her. “I don’t understand.” 

“And I’m afraid I can’t give you any more information than that.” She did seem genuinely remorseful, which counted for piss-all. 

“So you’re going to leave me here!?” 

“Just for two days. Three, at the most.” 

“I need a healer!” He didn’t mean to yell. A guard looked over to them briefly, then continued on their patrol. Corimir lowered his voice to a whisper. “Please,” he begged. “Don’t just leave me here with them.” 

Elanwe chewed at her lip, studying Corimir’s face in silence. “I’m sorry. I can’t risk bringing you with me. It’s a treacherous climb. And you’re unwell.” She reached out and gave his elbow a firm squeeze. Corimir resisted the urge to yank away. “Let me ask around town a bit more, okay? I won’t leave until I know you’ll be safe.”

— 

There was only one other elf in the entire village: a dirty little Bosmer. He beamed as he spoke to Elanwe, nodding his head emphatically and gesturing with grand animation. 

Corimir watched them from afar, huddled next to Horse. The mer was dressed like a Nord: tattered, filthy rags that barely passed as an excuse for clothing. Dirt caked his sharp features; the corded muscle of his tanned forearms indicated a life of hard labor. 

Elanwe gestured in Corimir’s direction and the Bosmer looked, his dark eyes glittering curiously. He waved with another face-splitting smile. Corimir just scowled, stepping closer to Horse. The two of them spoke for another minute before walking over to him. 

“This is Gwilin,” Elanwe explained. “He’s more than happy to give you lodging while I make the pilgrimage. Gwilin, this is my friend, Anduil.” 

His father’s name on her lips was like a kick to the stomach. But they couldn’t afford to use their own, and given his father had been dead for almost thirty years… Corimir extended his hand to shake, flinching when Gwilin took it too roughly. His palm was thick with calluses, his grip firm.

“Very nice to meet you, Anduil.” They dropped hands after two firm shakes. “I’m not much of a healer, but I am a bit of an alchemist. I’d be happy to help you out.”

“Thank you,” Corimir rasped, unable to meet his gaze.

Gwilin lived in a small, single-room hut at the edge of the village, smoke curling from a lone, lopsided chimney. Corimir hovered in the doorway, pulling the cloak tightly around his body as Gwilin gave Elenwen an incredibly short tour. There was nothing Bosmeri about the dwelling— nothing even remotely elven— just cold stone and hand-hewn wood. 

“Would you like anything to eat? To drink?” Gwilin was saying, pulling two rickety chairs from a wall and placing them before the fire. “Come, sit.” 

Elanwe looked to Corimir as she sat down, then gestured with her chin to the open chair. Slowly, reluctantly, he stepped over and sat gingerly down onto the seat. It creaked beneath his weight. 

“My mother always said a good meal is just as healing as any potion or remedy,” Gwilin chattered, shuffling pots around and stoking the fire. 

“Did you grow up in Skyrim?” Elanwe asked. 

“No.” Gwilin’s tightly bound tail of hair swished from side to side as he shook his head. “I grew up in the Northern Woods, just outside of Arenthia. I left Valenwood to travel about fifteen years ago.” He glanced over his shoulder with a cheery smile. “I didn’t mean to end up in Skyrim, but here I am! Been living in Ivarstead for coming up on… oh, four years, give or take? I like it here. Well enough.” 

“No plans for more travel?” Elanwe asked with a chuckle, crossing one leg delicately over the other. Corimir was thankful for her ability to produce smalltalk. He sank down farther into his chair, readjusting his cloak. 

“Who knows?” Gwilin responded, opening a glass jar of…  _ something _ and pouring it into one of the pots. He closed the pot’s lid and hung it on a spit over the fire. “I like Ivarstead. I like my home. But I’m not bound to this place.”

Corimir didn’t know what to say. He knew he should probably say something— he was about to spend the next two to three days in this man’s house. He should be getting to know him. Yet his jaw remained locked, as if sealed shut. Gwilin didn’t seem to mind. He and Elanwe spoke easily, chattering and laughing. Every now and then he’d catch Corimir’s eye and would offer one of those impish little smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Corimir never returned them. 

He and Elanwe talked and laughed, and soon Corimir was being handed a bowl of…  _ something.  _ He knew enough of Bosmeri culture to feel an appropriate amount of fear when he lifted the spoon to his mouth. There was certainly meat in the soup, but it tasted like beef. Would elves taste like beef? Maybe it was Khajiit…

“So, you’re making the Pilgrimage to High Hrothgar?” Gwilin said, jarring Corimir from his thoughts. “I’ve always wanted to climb the seven-thousand steps myself, but I’ve yet to do it.” 

“Yes,” Elanwe said with a nod. “I’ll be collecting rubbings of the plaques along the way. For the Bards College.” 

“Wonderful!” Gwilin exclaimed, then asked her something else. Corimir had stopped listening. He was staring at Elanwe, his spoon only halfway to his mouth. High Hrothgar. So there  _ was _ something atop that mountain. The name niggled in the back of his mind like a gnat. Something he’d heard before, but he wasn’t sure where. He’d have to press Gwilin for more information once she’d left. Elanwe must have felt his eyes on her and looked to him suddenly. He dropped his gaze to his soup, spooning another mouthful and chewing it slowly. The food did make him feel… good. Better.

“So, Anduil,” Gwilin began, turning to face him. “What’s afflicting you? It helps to know some specifics.” 

Corimir stared at him for a long minute, looked to Elanwe, then back. “I… was being held captive,” he stated slowly. “By bandits.” 

“Oh, Divines.” Gwilin’s cheery expression immediately dropped, replaced by pity. Corimir wasn’t sure which he despised more. “That’s… truly awful. I’m so sorry, my friend.” 

“It’s fine,” Corimir snapped. “Predominantly, I’m simply weakened. They didn’t feed me but for every other day, and each morning I was given magicka-suppressing poison. I was also…” He trailed off, his gaze sliding to the fire. His jaw worked around unspoken words for a moment longer than he would have preferred. “Beaten.”

Gwilin made a noise of distress and Corimir ducked his head to stare intently into his soup. It was close enough to the truth to get him proper healing. 

“Well, you’re safe here.” 

Corimir grunted in response, running his tongue across his teeth before bringing another spoon of soup to his mouth. 

“I think he needs rest more than anything,” Elanwe added. “We’ve been on the road for three days.” 

“Most certainly,” Gwilin agreed with a nod. “Has he had any form of healing at all?” He asked as if Corimir wasn’t sitting right there, listening to everything they were saying. 

“A potion,” he interjected before she could speak on his behalf. “And I’ve a very basic grasp of Restoration. I’ve been using it on my feet.”

Gwilin nodded with another sympathetic smile.

“I trust you’ll take good care of him,” Elanwe said, effectively ending the humiliating and patronizing conversation. 

Then, she tipped her own bowl up to her lips and shoveled the rest of the contents into her mouth in a horrifying display of incivility. Corimir couldn’t help but stare slack-jawed. He could practically hear his mother’s outraged voice ringing shrilly in his head:  _ Those who live like animals, die like animals. _

“Thank you so very much, Gwilin.” Elanwe wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. “The stew was amazing. Just what I needed to make the trek.” 

“Happy to hear it!” he chirped. “Did you want any more? I have plenty.” 

“No, no. You’re too kind.” 

A low, simmering hatred had begun to churn in Corimir’s gut as he watched their back-and-forth— the overly cheery pleasantries, the false manners. It was like watching two swine that had been taught to speak the common tongue, dressed up in frills and lace. Disgusting examples of degradation and degeneracy. Abhorrent–

“Anduil?” 

Corimir snapped upright. “Yes? Sorry.” 

“It’s alright! I simply asked if you’d like to lie down,” Gwilin said with a soft smile. “You can take my bed for as long as you’re here.” 

“Oh!” Elanwe interjected, springing to her feet. “Let me get the furs I bought for you. They’re still strapped to Horse.”

Gwilin blinked. “Horse?”

“Horse is our horse. He named him,” Elanwe explained, jutting her chin towards Corimir before throwing him a wink. 

Corimir’s face flushed hot for no reason and he dropped his gaze to the floor. “It’s a practical name,” he murmured in protest. 

Elanwe returned shortly with the furs and Gwilin helped her line his own bed with them. Corimir watched from the corner of the hut, feeling hollow and useless. After a few more moments of fussing, Gwilin patted the center of the pelts in an invitation. Corimir shuffled over mutely, allowing Gwilin to take his cloak, then climbed onto the woven rope bed. It creaked beneath him as he shifted. It was a short bed, made for a Bosmer. Had Corimir stretched out fully, his feet might have dangled off the edge. Instead, he pulled himself into a tight ball on his left side, facing away from the door. A blanket fluttered down overtop of him, smelling of cedar and woodsmoke. Gwilin’s firm hand on his shoulder. 

“Rest easy, friend. Would you like a sleeping draught?” 

“Yes. Please.” 

As Gwilin brought him the small vial, Corimir began to feel rather guilty for his previous anger and cruel judgement. He wasn’t able to dwell on his regret for long, for as soon as he’d swallowed the last bit of the potion, the weight of exhaustion seemed to flood his entire body, his limbs growing twice their weight. Immediately, he was wrapped in the blessed darkness of a dreamless sleep. 

— 

The world rematerialized slowly as someone gently squeezed his shoulder. Corimir tried to open his eyes, but it felt as though they were held fast by strings. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a raspy groan. 

“Anduil?” 

That was his father’s name. What year was it? Had it all been a dream?

“You’ve slept for about twelve hours,” the voice continued. “I just wanted you to drink some water.”

Corimir’s eyes slowly peeled back, his eyelashes thick with crust. “Whu—” There was a man sitting next to him. An elf. A Bosmer.  _ Gwilin _ , his mind finally supplied. He was in Ivarstead, sleeping in a stranger’s house, in a stranger’s  _ bed _ . Had he really grown so desperate? 

“Can you sit up?” Gwilin asked, his voice soft and low. 

Corimir tried, hissing as his muscles burned and ached with the movement. Gwilin was running a hand across his shoulders, murmuring nonsensical encouragement. A cup was placed in Corimir’s hand and he brought it to his lips without question. The water was cool and clear, tasting of snowmelt. He drank greedily, tipping his head back and gasping for breath after the last had been drained. 

“Alright, good. Perfect. I made this for you, too.” Gwilin presented a small vial. “If you have any internal damage, this should help.”

Once more, Corimir brought the bottle to his lips without question. The potion tasted earthy, almost fungal, with an incredibly sharp sting of garlic that lingered in the back of his throat, pushing up into his nose. There were worse things to smell. 

“Excellent,” Gwiling praised. 

“May I have more water, please?” Corimir felt frail and docile, like a small child begging for dessert.

“Of course. Don’t be afraid to ask for anything.” 

After draining another cup, Corimir eased himself back down onto the bed, feeling remarkably refreshed. Garlic was still clinging cloyingly to his tongue, but it was tolerable.

“Do you need another sleeping draught?” Gwilin asked, placing a filled cup of water on the small bedside table before sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t believe so.” Corimir wrestled with the blanket for a moment before pausing. “Why did you agree to help me? Did she pay you?”

“Pay…? No! Not at all.” Gwilin smiled. “I’m just happy to help those in need.” 

“Yes, but  _ why? _ Surely there’s something you’re looking for. Information? To have me in your debt? Nobody takes in a complete stranger without the promise of  _ some _ kind of reward.”

Gwilin stared at him for a long moment, studying Corimir’s face with a solemn expression and a tight jaw. He opened his mouth to take a quick breath, closed it, then said in a low, even tone: “You’re… Thalmor. Aren’t you?”

The question hit Corimir like a bucket of ice water, his stomach turning to stone. “No,” he said too quickly and too loudly. 

Gwilin immediately put up his hands, a gesture of placation. “I don’t care! I promise, I don’t.”

“I’m  _ not _ Thalmor,” Corimir insisted, though his voice trembled. “And even if you don’t care,  _ I am not Thalmor _ . Do you understand?”

Gwilin nodded emphatically, his dark eyes wide. He held Corimir’s gaze for another long, tense moment before exhaling through his nose. He looked away and pushed to his feet. “You’re not Thalmor,” he repeated. “And I’m not looking for anything from you. Not information, not money.” He turned back, his face devoid of humor. “There’s a lot of bad things happening in the world right now. And I… I just don’t want to be a part of that. I want to be different. Balance out the bad with some good, you know.” He offered the barest hint of a smile. “That’s all.” 

Corimir found himself at a loss for words. He blinked back, holding the mer’s gaze, his own pulse thrumming in his ears. 

This was disastrous. If word got out that there was a sick Thalmor soldier here, the valley would be swarming with Stormcloaks in two day’s time. He’d clearly underestimated the Bosmer— let himself be fooled by his cheery disposition and feigned naivety. The wood elves were nothing if not a sly and cunning race. 

“Alright,” Gwilin said after another long moment of staring. He slowly moved back over to the bed and sat down. “I understand that you don’t trust me. And I don’t blame you. It’s clear that… that somebody has treated you very badly. But I give you my word. You’re safe here in my home.” He held a hand over his heart, extending the other towards Corimir with his pinky outstretched. 

Corimir stared at his hand, upper lip curling in distaste. “What are you doing?” 

“Pinky promise!” Gwiling replied. “It’s an unbreakable vow.” 

“Are we children?” Corimir sneered. 

Gwilin shrugged with a lopsided smile. “Sometimes kids are more honest than adults.” 

It was ludicrous. Absurd. Corimir’s scowl deepend as he stared at Gwilin’s outstretched hand, his mind churning. Then, slowly, he lifted his own hand from his lap and looped his pinky around Gwilin’s, squeezing once. It was probably the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done in his entire life. 

Gwilin grinned, leaning forward and kissing his own fist before pulling his hand away and getting to his feet once again. “‘Tis official. I am bound to my word.” 

“As you say,” Corimir sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes. “I think I might take you up on that draught after all.”

“Coming right up.” 

The next time Corimir awoke, the small hut was dark and he was burning up. His entire shirt was soaked with sweat and the soft fur of the animal pelts clung to his exposed skin. He sat up slowly with a soft groan. Pushing sweat-damp hair from his eyes, he swung his legs over the side of the low bed and took a moment to collect himself. The room spun dizzily around him, a darkened blur of shadows and abstract shapes. Low light from the hearthfire embers barely illuminated anything aside from Gwilin’s huddled form in his sleeping roll across the room. Tentatively, he pushed to his feet, wobbling on unsteady legs towards the front door of the hut. 

The night air felt like a slap, cold as ice with a sharp, stinging bite. Teeth chattering, Corimir donned his cloak and hobbled around to the back of the hut to relieve himself, his bare feet screaming in pain against the half-frozen ground. Technically, he was feeling better. The bruises had faded significantly and the ache in his arse had dulled to a persistent, annoying itch, which he was  _ happy _ to tolerate. His lower back no longer throbbed and the scabs on his knees had thickened into lumpy scar tissue. Even without a proper healer, the bed rest, consistent food, and healing potions seemed to be working out well enough. His body was still a hideous mangle from months of abuse, but it was  _ healing _ . 

With his business finished, he quickly hobbled back inside, hissing in pain all the while. He shut the door as quietly as he could, hanging his cloak up then turning towards the fire. His heart leapt into his throat and he clutched his chest in alarm. Gwilin had woken up and was sitting upright. 

“Everything alright?” he asked, his voice rough from sleep. 

“Fine,” Corimir clipped, hobbling back over to the bed. “The call of nature.” 

“I have a pail—” 

“I’d rather not,” Corimir interrupted. He sat down on the bed with a groan. “How you live in this barbaric country is beyond me.” 

“It’s not bad,” Gwilin said with a shrug. “Not too different from the more rural parts of Valenwood.” He shifted forward, sliding from his bedroll and crawling over to the fire on all fours. His movements were almost animalistic, like some sort of jungle cat. Corimir watched him stoke the dying embers, suddenly feeling ever farther from home than he had in a Windhelm prison— utterly trapped in an alien land. 

He looked down at his swollen and blistered feet, then gently pulled his left foot into his lap, dipping into his shallow magicka reserves to cast a short healing spell. 

“Those aren’t looking too good.” 

Corimir looked up, quirking an eyebrow in question. 

“Your feet.” Gwilin gestured. “If you give me a moment, I think I can help.” 

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Corimir insisted, pulling his other foot into his lap. “I didn’t intend to wake you from your rest.” 

“It’s no problem,” Gwilin insisted with a smile, rolling to stand and beginning to light the tapered candles scattered around the hut. “Only if you want me to, though. But I promise it’ll help them feel better. And heal faster.” 

Corimir didn’t want his help, but his throbbing feet begged to differ. That, and he was still unsure as to whether or not he would be keeping all his toes by the end of this endeavor. There were still many miles between them and the Thalmor Embassy. He grunted and looked away, hoping Gwilin would take that as acquiescence. 

He did. 

Corimir huddled beneath the blanket and furs while Gwilin puttered about the hut. His fever had swung back, making him frightfully cold despite sweating profusely. He pulled the blanket up over his head, curling around his knees and wrapping his hands around his sore, frozen feet. 

The lid on the pot Gwilin had hung over the fire began to rattle, and he set his mortar and pestle aside to pull it from the spit, setting it on the edge of the hearth to keep warm. 

“What drew you to alchemy?” Corimir asked after another stretch of silence. 

Gwilin met his eyes briefly before turning his back to him, picking up his pestle and beginning to grind. “Necessity.” The sound of stone on stone was oddly soothing. “Then it became a bit of a hobby. Then a fascination. Alchemy in Valenwood is  _ very _ different from Skyrim’s. Especially if you adhere to the Pact.” He threw a glance at Corimir. “I don’t, by the way. If you were wondering.”

Corimir looked away, adjusting the furs and feeling mildly guilty.

“I was never really skilled with magic,” Gwilin continued. “But I wanted to be able to help people. Alchemy is the best way that I’ve found to do so.” He tapped the pestle against the side of the mortar, shaking the ingredients before dumping them into a large basin. “And, through experimentation, I’ve found that there’s more to it than just ingesting ingredients.” He began to rummage through a cabinet, plucking out glass jars and wooden boxes, pinching off ingredients from hanging clusters of drying herbs, his movements methodical. 

“How so?” Corimir found himself genuinely curious. Plus, the conversation took his mind off the fever.

“Well, I’m currently making you a foot soak,” Gwilin explained, smiling over his shoulder as he began to grind new ingredients together. “I also make poultices, teas, tinctures—” 

“All for this little village?” 

Gwilin shook his head, ponytail swishing. “Sometimes I travel to Riften to sell. Sometimes to Whiterun.” He looked over his shoulder again, pausing. “You’d be safe in Whiterun, by the way. If you needed another place to rest on your journey.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s neutral. The Jarl is, at least. The citizens, not so much.”

_ Neutral in the war, _ Corimir realized. So Gwilin still thought he was Thalmor, despite his vehement denial. Wonderful. Corimir sighed loudly, rubbing his eyes. “Thank you,” he said flatly. No use arguing at this point. If Gwilin was going to turn him in, he’d probably already done it by now. 

After adding the next round of crushed ingredients to the basin, Gwilin retrieved the pot of water and poured it over the mixture. The hut filled with a rich, earthy smell, sweetened by something floral— something distinctly green, like pine needles. 

“What all is in that?” Corimir asked. He was no longer concerned with being poisoned, but his own irritating curiosity was one thing that no amount of abuse could beat out of him. 

“Well, I started with powdered Blisterwort, which is great for… er,  _ blisters,” _ Gwilin explained with a chuckle. “Then the bulk of it is made up of blue mountain flower, which is basically a Skyrim panacea. And lastly, juniper berries and hanging moss, which will help you absorb the other two.”

Corimir made a noise of interest but didn’t quite know how to respond. Alchemy had never been something he’d had much interest in. He’d always thought of it as the poor man’s Restoration but, considering how much better he felt after only a few of Gwilin’s potions, he was beginning to come around.

“Here.” Gwilin set the basin to the side then kneeled at Corimir’s feet, dipping a small towel into the soak. “It’s a bit too hot still, but give me one of your feet.” He wrung the excess water from the towel and held it out against his lap. 

Corimir hesitated, tonguing the inside of his cheek, then shifted to place his foot in the center of the towel. Gwilin wrapped the warm cloth around him and  _ squeezed. _ A pitiful noise managed to slip out from between Corimir’s lips and he dug his fingers into the side of the bed, grinding his teeth against the pain. Then, almost immediately, the pain faded, replaced by a warmth that traveled up his leg and into his spine. It was a pleasure unlike anything he’d felt in… 

Abruptly, unable to stop himself, Corimir let out a soft sob, tears immediately blurring his eyes. He covered his mouth in shock, then covered his eyes, his other hand still clinging desperately to the furs and blankets. Gwilin didn’t stop or pull away, gently massaging the warm cloth against his aching foot as Corimir shuddered. 

“Alright, other one,” he said, placing Corimir’s foot gently on the ground, dipping the towel back into the basin and wringing it out. Corimir continued to quietly cry, mortified beyond belief but too exhausted to try to hold it in. He covered his face with both his hands, sniffing loud and wet as Gwilin continued his ministrations, unhurried. It was then that Corimir was thankful that this wood elf was a complete stranger to him— that he would never see him or this village ever again. It was freeing. He could cry and carry on like a child free of consequence. So he let himself go, weeping openly into his hands. 

“Anduil,” Gwilin said, his voice low and soft. His father’s name made Corimir’s stomach clench hard and he let out an even louder sob, doubling over. Now that he’d begun, it was as though he would never stop. It was an exquisite agony, and somehow, having a witness made it simultaneously worse and better. 

“Corimir,” he tried to whisper, but it came out as a croak. He couldn’t bear to hear his father’s name one more time. It was its own kind of torture. “My name is Corimir. We—” He wiped furiously at his eyes, straightening up. “We couldn’t…” Divines, had he completely given up? He may as well march himself back to Windhelm, hands bound. Prostrate himself before the gates.

“I understand,” Gwilin said before he could finish. “It’s okay.” He set Corimir’s other foot down and placed the damp rag off to the side. “I’m going to get a different rag, then I want to try to clean your ear a bit, if that’s alright?”

Corimir just nodded with a loud sniff, eyes glued to the ground. He’d tried to ignore his ear, done his best to push it to the very back of his mind. It was the only permanent reminder he’d have. His body would heal, perhaps even his mind would ease, but… Any time he might catch his reflection, perhaps in a polished mirror or in the still waters of a lake, he would  _ see _ .

“Okay.” Gwilin returned and wetted the new rag before sliding the basin over. “I think it’s cool enough for you to soak your feet. Just for a little bit.”

Corimir complied, hissing at the initial sting of the water. But  _ oh… _ It was divine. Something so simple. His sobs had devolved into quiet weeping, tears streaming silently down his face as Gwilin sat on the bed beside him, one foot tucked beneath him. 

“I’m so sorry,” Gwilin murmured, gently dabbing at Corimir’s swollen, crusted ear. “I’m so sorry they did this to you. Nobody deserves this.”

Corimir flinched and pulled away only once, sniffing again and gripping the edge of the bed tightly. “The man who did this to me,” Corimir rasped. “He would deserve it.”

Gwilin paused and Corimir heard him take a deep breath. “Yeah. He probably does.” He wiped gently at the scabs and dried blood. “But sometimes revenge doesn’t…  _ feel _ as good as you think it will.”

“I doubt I’ll even be able to get revenge,” Corimir scoffed, releasing his grip on the bed to wipe his nose along the back of his arm. “Besides.” Another loud sniff and he straightened up, his tears finally stopping. “It would be like putting down a dog who bites. The danger of the beast is gone, but does it really understand what it did? Why it’s being punished? It’s simply acting on instinct— the only way it knows how.”

Gwilin said nothing, continuing to lightly dab at Corimir’s ear. “There,” he said after another moment. “If you can muster a little spell, I’m sure it’ll heal up completely by the morning next.” 

Tentatively, Corimir reached up to touch the raw edge of his ear. With a short breath, he pulled a bit of magicka into his fingertips. The side of his face burned hot and the bell-like tinkle of the spell rang loudly in his ear. After a minute he stopped the spell and ran the pad of his thumb over the jagged edge of the wound. It was sore still, but the skin was no longer broken. 

“Thank you,” he sighed. 

“You’re welcome. Corimir,” Gwilin added with a soft smile. Corimir looked to him with a bit of fear, regretting telling the mer his real name. Gwilin just shook his head. “I promise you. I’ll  _ keep _ promising you. You’re safe here.” 

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

Gwilin shrugged. “I forgive you.”

Corimir let out a dry, amused huff, running a hand over his face, along his jaw. The pads of his fingers prickled against the soft stubble that had accumulated there. He’d never really been able to grow a proper beard. Not that a Thalmor soldier was permitted to have one. He sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows against his knees. There was a dull, throbbing headache pulsing at the base of his neck, spiking like needles behind his puffy eyes. 

“I don’t even know what time it is,” he admitted softly. “You must be tired.” 

“It’s probably a few hours before dawn.” Gwilin slid from the bed to his feet. “And don’t worry about me. I don’t usually need a whole lot of sleep, anyway.” 

“Is that a Bosmer thing, then?” 

“No, I think it’s just a Gwilin thing.” 

Corimir half-smiled, cautiously lifting one of his feet from the basin for inspection. He wiggled his toes experimentally, water dripping from his heel. They felt… better.

“Couple more minutes,” Gwilin said, gathering the used rags and plopping them into a bucket by the door. “Then you can dry them off. I’m probably gonna make some breakfast and just start my day early. Hungry?”

“Insatiably,” Corimir muttered, straightening up into a stretch and letting himself fall back against the bed with a soft grunt. His fever had quelled. He felt lighter. 

“I’ve got some rock warbler eggs that I just collected yesterday. They’ll fry up nice. And they’ve got some good healing benefits.”

“You make it seem like everything here has healing benefits,” said Corimir to the ceiling. 

That got Gwilin to chuckle. “Not everything. Eat the wrong plant and you’ll be on your ass before you can say ‘deathbell’.” The sound of pots and pans being moved around. “Alchemy is a gamble. Trial and error.” 

“Personal experience?” 

This earned a genuine laugh. “Well, let’s just say that sometimes, the only way to find out whether something is good or bad is to take a chance on it.”

The rock warbler eggs were delicious. Gwilin served them on thickly sliced, buttered bread with green onions and pickled garlic. Corimir was sure he’d smell like a garlic clove by the time his stay in the Bosmer’s hut had ended.  _ Healing benefits, _ of course. Had he known he might have been eating raw garlic this entire time. He finished his portion with a stifled burp and a soft apology. Gwilin just laughed and said he took it as a compliment.

The pink light of dawn had begun to lighten the ceiling, peeking between the slatted windows that lined the rafters. Despite the encroaching sunlight, Corimir felt the siren song of sleep pulling him back down into the depths. 

“Get some rest, Corimir,” Gwilin insisted, collecting their plates and cleaning up around his cooking pit. “Sleep is the best way to heal. I’ll try not to come in and out too much.”

“It’s your house,” Corimir argued lethargically, shifting to lie down and tugging the blankets up around him. “Do as you please.”

Gwilin laughed under his breath and said something, but Corimir was already falling asleep. His arms and legs felt like lead weights. He succumbed to sleep just as the soft sound of birdsong began to trill outside the hut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few more drawings for fun: 
> 
> [[Corimir actually smiling for once]](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/657703007210700810/785592891036270642/image0.png)   
>  [[Gwilin, looking adorable]](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/657703007210700810/774002705097424906/image0.png)   
>  [[A sketch of Corimir not smiling again]](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/605610821359370242/785031065352929280/image0.png)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read and left me comments on this story so far! It's been slow going, but nice to come back to every now and then.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank's again to jottingprosaist for being a wonderful and informative beta!

Two days passed, then three, then four. Corimir tried to keep his expectations neutral, but a large part of him had already resigned to the fact that Elanwe was dead and he was on his own. Strangely, the idea of being stuck with Gwilin didn’t fill him with as much dread as it might have four days prior. 

The Bosmer had proved to be a spirited companion... when Corimir wasn’t sleeping. But Gwilin was infuriatingly optimistic in almost all areas of life. He was full of endless energy and anecdotes, and his generosity could put a priest of Mara to shame. Corimir did his best to earn his keep: picking up after himself, washing towels and linens and bowls in the river, scrubbing old pans, sweeping and dusting. It was menial work, but it stilled his mind. Made him feel useful again. 

“Tell me more about High Hrothgar,” he asked as they had lunch on the fifth day. 

“To be honest, I don’t know much else,” Gwilin admitted, spooning another helping of stew into his bowl. “Always thought it was odd that there's a layer of thick clouds covering the peak of the mountain above the monastery. Not sure what's up there, but I bet the Greybeards know." 

“Know what’s behind the clouds?” Corimir let out a scoff. “Probably the peak of the mountain. That’s a rather boring mystery.”

“Well, maybe, but even on the sunniest, clearest days there’s always a cloud!” Gwilin argued, pointing at Corimir emphatically with his spoon and flicking small bits of food across the floor. “How is that possible, huh? Not a cloud in the sky and the top of that mountain is still obscured.”

“I’m sure it’s some sort of weather phenomenon that hasn’t yet been explained.”

“Fine. Be boring about it,” Gwilin huffed with a pout. “I choose to live my life believing in the fantastical and the mysterious.” 

Corimir almost said something too-mean, but held his tongue. Instead, he dipped his finger into his soup and flicked it at Gwilin. 

“Hey!” He sputtered and wiped dramatically at the front of his tunic. “What in the name of Y’ffre was that for!?” 

“For flinging food in my direction. Now we’re even.” 

“Oh no, friend. This?” He gestured to the small flecks of broth across his shirt. “This is war.” He scooped a hefty amount of soup into his spoon, cocking it back like a catapult, squinting one eye as he aimed it at Corimir.

“No! No-no-no!” Corimir shuffled backwards across the floor with a helpless laugh. “I yield! I yield!”

There was a brisk knock at the door, causing both of them to freeze. Gwilin sat his bowl and spoon down and rolled to his feet. He placed a solid hand against Corimir’s shoulder, catching his eye, before walking over to the door and opening it only a few inches. 

“Oh!” He exclaimed, swinging the door wide. “You’re back!”

Haloed by the bright light of the midday sun, Elanwe stepped into the small hut., She had a jagged, half-healed gash across her cheek. The door closed and she blinked blindly around the darkened room. When her eyes finally landed on Corimir, her shoulders sagged with relief, a small smile working its way across her face. 

“You’re looking much better.” It came out like a sigh. 

“You’re not,” Corimir replied, taking a moment to look her up and down. “Everything go as planned?” 

“Not at all,” Elanwe lamented, letting her pack fall heavily to the ground and tugging off her boots as Gwilin helped peel her out of her cloak. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you  _ any _ of it.” 

Corimir grunted and reached for his soup bowl. “I figured as much.” 

“Did you get to go to the very top of the mountain?” Gwilin asked. 

Elanwe seemed startled by the question. “The top? Why?”

“We were debating,” Corimir explained as he stirred his soup. “Just now, actually. Gwilin thinks there’s something fantastical hiding in those clouds up there.” 

“I never said it was fantastical!” 

“You implied it.” 

Elanwe looked between the two of them, one brow raised, a smirk threatening the corner of her lips. “Nothing fantastical,” she said after a pause. “Not by today’s standards, at least.” She sat down on the floor next to Corimir with a grunt. “How do you feel about hitting the road tomorrow morning? I could use a good night’s sleep in a proper bed first.”

“Fine by me.” 

“You’re welcome to use my bed!” Gwilin offered, already filling a bowl of stew for Elanwe. 

“Oh, no no. That won’t be necessary. I’ll rent a room in the inn.” She thanked him softly as he handed her the bowl. “But you’re incredibly kind for offering.” 

Gwilin just shrugged with a smile. “I need to get back to work. Those logs aren’t going to split themselves. But stay as long as you need. Glad you’re back safe.” 

And with that, he slipped out the door, leaving Corimir and Elanwe alone in front of the hearth. 

“He’s so kind it’s almost unreal,” she commented, blowing across the surface of her stew to cool it. 

“You’re telling me. I’ve lived with him for the past five days. It’s a miracle he’s made it this far in life without transforming into an actual doormat.” 

“He’s taken expert care of you, I see. Despite your shitty attitude.” 

Corimir couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “He’s a skilled alchemist, I’ll give him that. And a born caretaker. What he’s doing working for an ill-tempered Nord in a hovel of a village, I’ll never know.” 

“I’ve heard tell,” Elanwe said around her food, taking a moment to swallow, “that  _ sometimes _ people do things because it makes them happy, as opposed to simply doing what’s expected of them.” 

Corimir clucked his tongue. “Don’t let your superiors hear you saying things like that. It’ll be re-education for you.” It was meant to be a joke, but it soured the mood between them, and Elanwe finished eating her food in silence. 

Corimir burned with questions about what she’d been up to over the last five days, alone on a mountaintop with monks who could only speak in barbarous shouts. He could only assume her mission was one that dealt in the weapon of the Thu’um. He was far from stupid— he could put two and two together. What else could have put her in Windhelm as well? Ulfric had shouted the High King of Skyrim to death. A power like that needed to be controlled. At the very least, regulated. Or  _ utilized. _

“What gave you that nasty cut?” he asked after a long stretch of silence between them. 

Elanwe looked at him and he gestured to his own cheek. She sighed and set her empty bowl down. “A troll.” 

“A troll!?” He’d only encountered one of the beasts. It had been his first week stationed in Markarth— he’d nearly got his head lopped off when he went down to the Karth River for what he had hoped would be a quiet moment away from the city. He’d never run faster in his life. “You’re lucky to be alive!” 

“Fire,” she said, apparently electing for single-word responses. 

“What do you mean, fire?” 

“It’s their weakness,” she elaborated. “Trolls have an accelerated healing ability. Except from fire.”

“Ah…” 

Elanwe stood up, groaning into a stretch. “Well, I’m going to go get myself a room. Did you want to stay at the inn tonight instead?” 

Corimir hesitated, nervous at the idea. “Let me ask Gwilin,” he said. “I’d still rather avoid any contact with the local Nords, if possible.” 

“Understandable.” Elanwe strode to the door, stepping into her boots and grabbing her cloak and pack. “We’ll leave early tomorrow. Just after dawn.” 

Corimir nodded once, also getting to his feet and automatically stepping into a soldierly stance. “Of course. I’ll be ready.” 

Elanwe only spared him one final glance before pulling open the door and stepping out into midday sun, leaving Corimir alone in the darkness of the hut. 

He made a mental note not to bring up re-education ever again. 

—

Gwilin insisted that Corimir stay with him for the final evening, which he might as well have expected. Regardless, he was incredibly relieved, despite refusing to show it. He helped Gwilin prepare dinner then took a moment to gather his spartan belongings. He’d washed his clothes in the river that morning and hung them up to dry by the hearthfire. They were still damp on one side and needed to be flipped. In the meantime, Gwilin had given him a comically small tunic to wear that barely kept him decent, so he’d ended up tying a blanket around his waist. It dragged behind him as he walked and made him feel like some sort of peasant prince. 

“I can take the bedroll tonight,” Corimir offered as he washed their dinner bowls in a bucket. “You deserve to sleep in your own bed after putting up with me for so long.” 

“Nonsense!” Gwilin chirped. He was in the midst of bottling a few healing potions for Corimir to take with him. “What’s one more night?” 

“Your back  _ has _ to be killing you.” 

“Nope. Honestly, I can fall asleep anywhere and be fine.” 

Corimir wasn’t convinced. “Maybe I need a trial run before we set back out on the road. Remind myself what it’s like to sleep in a bed roll.” 

Gwilin just laughed. “If you’re that worried about it, then by all means. Sleep in the roll. Or we can share the bed. I’m really not picky.”

This gave Corimir pause. He turned to blink at the bed, then at Gwilin. “It’s a bit small, wouldn’t you say?” 

Gwilin gestured to himself in response. 

“Yes but—” Corimir gestured to himself in return. “I’m twice your height.” 

“Oh, that is a  _ gross _ exaggeration.” 

“What if I roll over and accidentally squash you?” 

Through his bubbling laughter Gwilin demanded, “Stop it,” twisting the final cork into the line of bottles. Corimir mulled it over for another moment, thinking back to that pitiful night outside of Riften when he’d found his rest wrapped in Elanwe’s arms. He thought of how painfully rapturous any type of gentle touch made him feel. He also thought about how he’d never have to see Gwilin again. 

“Sure. We can share.” 

The bed was too small. Corimir immediately regretted agreeing to share it. Now, he’d probably get a  _ worse _ night sleep than if he’d taken the floor. Gwilin seemed oblivious as he settled in next to him with a sigh, radiating warmth and contentment. He’d let his hair down from its usual high tail and it fell in soft waves around his shoulders, smelling of sawdust.

“You seem used to this,” Corimir grumbled. 

“What, sharing a bed?” Gwilin laughed, turning onto his side with his back to Corimir. “I had to share a bed with my four other siblings when I was small.” He chuckled. “This is incredibly peaceful comparatively.” 

“I can only imagine.” 

“Do you have any siblings?” Gwilin asked, his voice turning sleepy.

Corimir drew in a slow breath, staring up at the darkened ceiling. “...No.” 

His mother had wanted more children. So  _ desperately _ had she wanted. She’d tried so hard to conceive again, even though having Corimir had nearly been the death of her. To no avail. His family lineage rested on his shoulders alone. 

“None.”

“That’s too bad. They can be a pain sometimes, but I still love them.” Gwilin yawned loudly, pulling the quilt up around his shoulders and subsequently off of one of Corimir’s legs. “Goodnight, Corimir. Thanks for sharing. The extra body heat is really nice.” 

Corimir sighed, jaw clenched tight. “Goodnight.” He attempted to wrangle a bit of the quilt back before turning away from Gwilin, pressing their backs together. 

It was cramped, but… remarkably soothing. Faster than he anticipated, Corimir drifted off. 

He wasn’t sure what caused him to stir. The hut was still dark as pitch, barely illuminated by the low-burning coals in the hearth. There was something warm beneath his cheek that steadily rose and fell; the soft touch of a hand gently stroked his hair. 

He jerked upright, propping himself up on an elbow. Gwilin quickly pulled his hand to his chest, his dark eyes wide and glittering in the low light. 

“S-sorry…” he whispered. “You rolled over onto me and I—” He cut himself off, staring up at Corimir with a fearful expression. 

Corimir simply gazed down at him, slightly disoriented. One of his thighs was still draped over Gwilin’s leg. He didn’t move it. 

Tentatively, Gwilin reached up to run a hand along Corimir’s arm. “You can lie back down, if you want” he offered, voice quivering. 

Something clicked into place in Corimir’s sleep-addled mind. 

Gwilin found him attractive.

This revelation simultaneously filled him with nervous disgust and weary relief. He was desired— by a man, by a Bosmer, but still desired. He then wondered if  _ this _ had been Gwilin’s intention all along. His denial that he’d wanted anything in return from Corimir now felt like a twisted lie, completely transparent: Gwilin’s eagerness to touch him in any way he could. To share a bed.

Gwilin swallowed audibly. “I… I can move to my bed roll, if you’d like.” 

Corimir said nothing, still staring down at him. He felt… conflicted. On one hand, he’d never considered himself attracted to men. It was unsuitable for anyone looking to further their lineage. On the other hand, the fact that he was still seen as desirable made him feel less broken, even just a little bit. Perhaps there was hope for him yet… 

Without thinking much more, he bent forward and pressed his lips to Gwilin’s as an experiment, seeing if he could stand it. Gwilin sucked in a startled breath through his nose, the hand still on Corimir’s arm gripping him tighter. The kiss was brief, chaste. When Corimir pulled away, Gwilin’s eyes remained closed, his lips slightly parted. 

It was a pleasant feeling, Corimir decided, and bridged the gap once more. 

Gwilin made a soft noise against his mouth, rolling upwards and sliding an arm around Corimir’s shoulder, his other hand threading through his hair. Corimir moved his leg, shifted his hips away from Gwilin’s— as far away as he could manage on the small bed— his fingers splayed out against the Bosmer’s thin side, and deepened the kiss.

Gwilin was as small, if not smaller, than most of the women Corimir had been with in his life. And he was incredibly gentle. Almost reverent. He was moaning quietly against Corimir’s mouth, small little whimpers of delight.

Corimir felt completely detached from the entire situation. It was strange. Usually he greatly enjoyed kissing, but here and now it felt mechanical, simply going through the motions. It was almost as if he were watching it all play out from across the room, studying it like a scientist.

Maybe he was broken after all.

Gwilin’s hand trailed from between his shoulders, around his arm, across the front of his chest, sliding down… 

Corimir grabbed him by the wrist, pinning it against the bed as he jerked away. 

“Don’t.” 

“I’m sorry!” Gwilin gasped. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t.”

Corimir stared at him, pulse pounding in his ears. He was overreacting. He should relax. But his joints were locked. He couldn’t let go even if he wanted to. 

The small knot in Gwilin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Wh–what would you like? We can… just go back to sleep. If you want.” He shifted his wrist but didn’t try to pull away. His free hand trailed up to rub the outside of Corimir’s arm in slow, soothing strokes. “You just caught me off guard,” he said with a nervous laugh.

Finally Corimir’s joints softened and he let go with a shuddering exhale. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize! It’s fine. I… I didn’t dislike it, I mean.” Even in the low light, Gwilin’s face was flushed dark around his cheeks and ears, his hair curling softly across the lumpy, feather-stuffed pillow. “You’re a good kisser.” 

Something warm stirred in the pit of Corimir’s stomach. He was? He’d certainly never been told that before. Was it normal to compliment someone on their kissing? It had always just seemed like means to an end… 

“Oh,” he said stupidly and a touch too late. “Alright…”

Gwilin blinked up at him. “Did you want to… keep going?” 

“Only kissing.” He felt foolish for saying it. 

“That’s fine! That’s fine with me.” Gwilin smiled, his teeth glinting in the low light. The hand on Corimir’s arm slid upwards, across his shoulder, into his hair. It sent goosebumps rippling down Corimir’s arms and legs until the hairs stood on end. 

“Touch my hair?” His request was barely more than a whimper.

Immediately, Gwilin’s other hand joined the first, his nails lightly scraping across Corimir’s scalp, brushing tufts of hair behind his ears, massaging the base of his neck. 

It was  _ ecstasy _ .

Corimir’s moan was loud and helpless. He tipped forward to press his mouth against Gwilin’s neck, snaking his arms along the mer’s wiry sides, slipping beneath his back, holding on. Everything felt shivery and alive, as if his damaged body was healing from this alone, pulsing with renewed vitality.

“You’re really handsome,” Gwilin said into his ear. “Even when you’re scowling.” He pressed a kiss to Corimir’s temple. “But especially when you’re smiling.” 

Corimir let out a short, surprised laugh against Gwilin’s neck, charmed by the brashness. “Um… Thanks?” He pulled back, propping himself up on his elbows on either side of Gwilin’s chest. “Are you usually so forward?” 

The hands in Corimir’s hair continued to pet and stroke, gently combing through the remaining tangles. “Yes,” Gwilin said through a smile. “Life’s too short.” 

“We’re elves,” Corimir argued.

“Even still.” He brushed his thumbs across Corimir’s cheeks. “Seize every moment.” His smile was shy, unsure. “I certainly didn’t think I’d ever get to kiss you, but here I am.” 

Corimir had nothing he wanted to confess. But when he leaned down and their lips met again, it was softer than before, less mechanical. Something sweet and painful whorled in his chest, squeezing his heart— something he’d forgotten.

Cautiously, he shifted so that his body was pressed flush against Gwilin’s, sliding a leg between his thighs. To his great relief he didn’t feel a bulge— no lewd, insistent demand of escalation. Corimir sighed into Gwilin’s mouth before settling down to lie on his side. Gwilin turned to face him, tangling their legs together as he pressed kiss after kiss against Corimir’s mouth, calloused hands still massaging his scalp. 

Slowly, the kisses tapered off as sleep tugged insistently at the edges of Corimir’s mind. Gwilin tucked his head beneath Corimir’s chin, nuzzling against him like an affectionate puppy while one arm trailed beneath the hem of Corimir’s shirt to gently rub up and down his back. The world was silent around them, and for a brief moment it was as if nothing existed outside of that hut— nothing beyond the soft touches and warm breath, two people intertwined beneath a thick quilt. And before he knew it, Corimir was asleep again. 

— 

“That should be everything,” Elanwe declared, strapping the last of their belongings to Horse’s back. “Need any last-minute supplies? The next town proper is going to be Rorikstead. At least a few days away.” 

“I think everything is in order.” Corimir adjusted the fastenings of his coat, smoothing down its front. His feet were almost completely healed, the larger blisters having finally thickened into proper callouses. He’d be able to walk without issue. And since he’d healed significantly in… other places, he’d be able to ride Horse intermittently as well. 

Things were looking up. 

Except for Gwilin. 

Currently the Bosmer’s unfocused gaze landed somewhere around Horse’s hooves, expression blank, his hands shoved into his pockets. 

They’d woken slightly before dawn with more kisses. Corimir’s hands had grown bolder, more exploratory and firm, but never strayed below the waist. Gwilin seemed to melt beneath his touch no matter what Corimir did. He’d pressed soft kisses against any strip of exposed skin he could find as Gwilin whispered more confessions and compliments. Eventually they’d pulled themselves from beneath the covers and made breakfast, stealing fleeting touches before Elanwe had arrived fully dressed and ready to go.

It was an odd feeling— as if Corimir were leaving too soon.

Which was ridiculous, considering he had no business being in this wretched town to begin with.

“Thank you, again, Gwilin for your expert hospitality,” Elanwe said, reaching out to firmly shake his hand. 

He smiled thinly at her in return, the skin around his eyes tight and strained. “Of course. I’m happy I was able to help.” They dropped hands and he turned to Corimir, cheeks paling slightly. He took a deep breath and extended his hand, pinky outstretched. 

Corimir stared at him for a moment then let out a soft huff of amusement and entwined their pinkies.

“You’re always welcome here,” Gwilin said softly, almost whispering. “Always.” 

Corimir studied Gwilin’s face for a moment longer, trying and failing to place the emotion he saw there. The grinding of the saw mill hummed in the silence between them— the rushing water of the river, the slow creak of the water wheel as it turned.

“Thank you,” he said at last, pulling his hand away. 

“Oh, give him a hug, Anduil. Don’t be so stuffy,” Elanwe goaded, her voice sing-song and patronizing. 

Gwilin flushed bright red and Corimir took several steps backwards. He snatched Horse’s reins from Elanwe’s hand and began to lead him out of the village. 

“Thank you again, Gwilin,” he heard Elanwe say. “Take care of yourself!” 

“You too!” Gwilin called after them, his voice watery. 

Elanwe trotted over to catch up, then slowed to walk beside Corimir, laughing under her breath. “Oh, I think you broke his heart.” 

Corimir ignored her, grinding his teeth together. She was a meddlesome fool who had no business making flippant remarks like that. Besides, she couldn’t have possibly known…

Corimir placed a hand against Horse’s neck. He refused to look back until they’d already crossed the bridge. By then Gwilin was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reclaiming sexual agency after severe trauma is a slow and confusing process...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, jottingprosaist, for being a second pair of eyes! <3

It took them almost a full week to reach the Embassy. Though much of Corimir’s strength had returned, he was significantly slower in his travels than he was accustomed to, often having to stop to catch his breath or feeling fatigued long before sunset. He’d ridden Horse as much as he could stand, but without proper riding pants his thighs had begun to chafe. 

They’d also been exceedingly cautious. 

At even the distant roar of a dragon, Elanwe had demanded they get off the main roads, hide, or make camp for the night. At first Corimir had thought it a precautionary measure to avoid any possible run-in with the Nord. But after the third instance, it was beginning to appear as though Elanwe were simply afraid of them. Or avoiding them. Usually, ‘avoiding a dragon’ would be marked clearly and definitively as ‘common sense’, but in this case Corimir couldn’t help but find it oddly suspicious. There was something else there. Something unspoken. 

He’d had no time to ask after it before they reached the Embassy. 

Ambassador Elenwen greeted them in her informal reception chamber, sitting behind a polished maple desk and looking as cold and as disapproving as Corimir remembered. 

“Elanwe,” she greeted with a slight nod, and that was curious. No rank? “It seems you’ve returned with more than just information.” Her eyes slid to Corimir. “Care to explain?” 

“He was a prisoner in Windhelm. I know it wasn’t—” 

“Sanctioned?” Elenwen interrupted, jotting something down onto the paper in front of her. 

Elanwe took a long breath. “Yes.” 

“I assume I don’t have to lecture you on everything you risked by involving yourself in a rescue mission.” Her voice was level, unemotional. “Nor do I have to point out that by deviating from your assigned task, your journey lasted a full week longer than predicted, costing us not only valuable time, but lives.”

“I understand, Ambassador. And I’m sorry, but—” 

Elanwe held up her hand and Elanwe’s jaw snapped shut. She turned her steely gaze to Corimir once again. “Full name and rank.” 

Corimir straightened his posture, clasping his hands at his low back. “Corimir ‘len Canaale Silvanir Lanaawe ‘ata Anduil Maldur Tirwen ‘cal Lloderion. Corporal.” 

“Corporal,” Elanwe repeated, looking briefly to Elanwe then back to Corimir. “And tell me… Corporal Lloderion.” She shuffled papers about in front of her. “How long were you a Stormcloak prisoner?” 

He took a steadying breath through his nose. “I’m… not sure.”

“Where were you last stationed?” 

“Outside of Markarth under Captain Velarin.” He cleared his throat, shifting his stance. “The  _ late _ Captain Velarin.” 

“Yes, I am aware.” She was no longer looking at him, scribbling across the paper in front of her. “Your arrival does complicate things, but we are all happy to have you alive and well.” She didn’t sound happy. “Please, take the evening for yourselves. The bathing facilities are yours to use and food will be brought to your chambers. After dinner, curfew will be in effect and you are not to leave your rooms until you are given permission. Breakfast will be brought to your chambers in the morning, as well as your itinerary.” She looked up from her notes. “Understood?” 

“Yes, Ambassador,” Elanwe and Corimir said in near unison. 

“Dismissed.”   
  


—

  
Corimir was shown to a well-furnished room nearly the size of Gwilin’s hut, though nowhere near as warm or inviting. He’d barely had time to say another word to Elanwe, not even ‘goodnight’, before both of them were whisked away to separate quarters.

Now, as the nameless agent asked if there was anything else he needed before dinner, Corimir panicked and said ‘no,’ then watched helplessly as the agent turned and left without another word. The sound of the door closing might as well have been the rusty creak of a prison cell. 

It was snowing outside, gathering in lopsided drifts as the wind howled, rattling the glass panes. 

Before the gnawing panic could fully set in, Corimir busied himself with unpacking his spartan belongings. He’d consumed the last healing potion Gwilin had made for him the day prior, but had saved all the bottles— either out of a desire to reuse them, or out of some misplaced sense of sentimentality. He lined them up along an empty shelf next to his bed. The bed itself was large and imposing, the mattress overstuffed and bulging over the bed frame. The room also had two bookshelves, a small set of cupboards, a wooden desk, and an unlit fireplace. 

He should have asked for firewood. 

Blowing into his hands for warmth, he laid out the three sets of clothes that Elanwe had purchased for him across the bed. Even in just a week’s time they’d become tattered and worn from their travels. Perhaps he’d be issued a new set of armor, or even proper Thalmor robes…

A knock at the door caused him to jump. He walked swiftly over to answer, shaking the nerves from his hands.

A Khajiit woman holding a tray blinked back at him, her ears flattened to the side in barely-masked annoyance. 

“Tsavani has your dinner,” she said in a low, rasping voice. 

“Oh.” He took a step backwards, swinging the door wide to allow her entry. She swept into the room and over to the desk, tail swishing irritably, and sat the tray of food down harder than necessary before spinning on her heel and heading back to the door, hips swaying. 

“Thank you,” Corimir said softly, and she stopped mid step. Those strange slitted eyes looked him up and down, the hard line of her whiskers softening minimally. 

“Set the tray outside the door when you are finished. Tsavani will be back with breakfast in the morning.” She pulled the door closed behind her. 

Dinner consisted of tomato and leek stew with half a loaf of bread and a quarter slice of hard cheese. He ate it all and immediately wished there was more. Dutifully, he set the tray outside the door when he was finished, taking a moment to look up and down the hall as he did. 

The building was silent and still, the only stirring the faint sound of low voices somewhere on the lower level. Even the flames in the candles stood motionless. 

He retreated back into his room. 

It was completely dark outside now. The snow had stopped but the windows were half-obscured by white. He peered through the rippling glass to glance up at the stars. The borealis was stronger and brighter here in the far north of the country. It was always such a beautiful sight, but it never failed to make him feel like a stranger in a strange land, witness to some alien phenomenon. He turned back to his room. 

Blank walls. Empty hearth. Cold stone.

A sudden dizziness overtook him and he reached out to steady himself against the desk. His pulse had spiked, the sound of his own heart thudding dully in his ears. 

He was fine. He was safe here. 

He mentally repeated the phrase as he staggered over to the bed, crawling on top of it like a child fearing the darkened space beneath. He was safe. Then why did it feel like he was suffocating? He was increasingly aware of the proximity of the ceiling, the walls, the cold, hollow space where a fire should have been. 

He thought of how many doors were between him and the front entrance, trying to remember the way he was led to his room and finding he couldn’t. This sent another wave of panic rippling through his body and he couldn’t  _ make it stop _ . Would he be able to break the window if necessary? Would a fall from this height kill him or simply maim him? Where were they keeping Horse? 

Questions led to more questions as Corimir pulled himself into a tight ball leaning against the headboard, pulling his knees hard against his chest to still his trembling. His eyes unfocused and his mind detached from his body as he ran scenario after scenario of possible ways to escape— to get home.

A soft knock had Corimir’s mind snapping back into place like a rubber band. His head jerked to look at the door, staring at it for a long moment and wondering if he’d imagined the sound. Then the knock came again. Cautiously, he uncurled his legs and slid from the bed, shuffling over and pulling the door open only a sliver. 

Elanwe’s face peered back at him. “Quickly!” she whispered, looking over her shoulder. 

Corimir skittered backwards, opening the door with him, and Elanwe darted inside, bumping him out of the way with her hip to quietly close the door herself. 

“There’s a curfew!” Corimir hissed, but his body was already unraveling, muscles relaxing, his breath deepening.

“Fuck the curfew.” Elanwe grinned at him before her gaze slid over his shoulder. “Wow, look at your room. Very nice.” She meandered over to the desk, running her hands over the polished surface, then began to peruse the bookshelf. 

“I’m sure yours is nice, too,” Corimir mumbled. 

“Mine’s nicer, actually.” 

Corimir let out a short, wheeze of a laugh before walking over and crawling back onto the bed. “Why are you here?” 

“Because I was bored.” Elanwe plucked a book from one of the shelves. “And I wanted to chat.”

“Are you going to read me a bedtime story?” 

She skittered over to the bed, book beneath her arm, leaping onto the overstuffed mattress and jostling Corimir terribly. “Only if you want me to! This is a fun one.” She traced her finger along the cover as she read: “Guide to Approved Methods of Procreation.” 

“What!?” Corimir snatched the book from her hand. The title read  _ The Firsthold Revolt _ . He scowled. “You’re an agent of chaos.” 

Elanwe laughed through her teeth. “Disappointed, are we? You wanted to read it, I bet!” 

“What are you talking about? I  _ have _ read it.” Corimir handed her the book back. “That pamphlet is standard issue.” 

“You’re joking. Really!?” 

“They handed it out within the first few months of training.” Corimir climbed beneath the covers, shifting to lie flat on his back. “They didn’t want us getting frisky with one another.” 

“A bunch of young, horny soldiers. I don’t envy the task force set to regulate that.” Elanwe crawled under the covers as well, huddling up against Corimir’s side with a sigh. 

They’d slept practically glued to each other for the past week. It had all been strictly platonic, to both Corimir’s relief and disappointment. Elanwe didn’t seem interested in him in the slightest, despite making the occasional crude joke. He couldn’t say he blamed her. He was damaged. He was still unsure of what Gwilin saw that might appeal. 

“Did you really sneak into my room to discuss coitus?” 

“I wish.” She settled her cheek against his shoulder with a sigh. “I wanted to talk about tomorrow. You know they’re going to interrogate you.” 

Yes, he knew that. He’d known that this entire time. 

He tongued the inside of his cheek, staring up at the ceiling. “They’ll find little of value. I’ll comply, of course. With whatever they ask…”  _ If I remember it all. _ His memories from his time in captivity were growing hazier by the day, especially the interrogation portions. He’d had very little to tell the Stormcloaks, being a low-ranking officer. Sometimes he’d lead them on, bait them into thinking he was holding something back. The physical beatings were a relief compared to— 

“Are you prepared to… recount what you went through?” Elanwe asked, her voice turning soft and small, the way she spoke when she was trying to be serious. 

“Yes,” he lied. “And what about you? Ambassador Elenwen seemed pissed at you.” There he went, swearing like she did. He’d have to re-civilize himself before returning to Summerset. 

“Oh, I’ll be fine.” Elanwe huffed a laugh, her breath hot through Corimir’s thin shirt. “They can threaten me all they want, but they know they can’t do a damn thing.” 

Corimir blinked up at the ceiling, his brow slowly drawing tight. “Are you ever going to tell me who you are?” 

A stretch of silence followed his question, then Elanwe shifted closer, sliding an arm across his chest. 

“Yes.” She whispered. “Just not yet.”

  
— 

  
“Good afternoon Corporal Lloderion, I am Jurisreeve Rulindil.”

Corimir’s chair was comfortable. It was  _ suspiciously _ comfortable. He sat ramrod straight, hands resting in his lap, expression schooled into something dispassionate. 

Across the table from him, Rulindil’s eyes were dark beneath his cowl, glinting like polished ebony. His beard was immaculately combed so that every hair lay just so. Corimir found it difficult to focus on his features, and instead settled for looking somewhere over his left shoulder. The room was barren except for a single window behind Rulindil with a view that overlooked the inner courtyard. An hourglass sat perched on the edge of the table to Corimir’s left. He purposefully did not look as Rulindil flipped it over and the sand began to shift. 

“Let’s start from the beginning.” 

And so they did.

Corimir was actually pleased with himself. His voice remained level, his hands relaxed. He did not stumble nor stutter. He was in control, presenting facts in the order in which they happened: where he was stationed, the location of the ambush, the Dragonborn’s barbarous Shout (which was the only reason they were overtaken). Then, of course, the aftermath of their loss.

“I believe the Nords wished to rape Captain Velarin’s dead body,” he stated with an odd sense of calm as Rulindil paled and refused to look up from his notes. “However, in the end, they centered the majority of their attentions on me.” 

“And the information you provided?”

“Everything that I detailed previously. I had very little to give that was of any interest to them.” Corimir shifted in his seat, leaning back. “I knew very little.” 

“Yet they still took you prisoner.” 

“Oh yes.” He sucked at the insides of his cheeks. “To be had anytime the Dragonborn saw fit.” 

Rulindil sniffed loudly, clearing his throat as he jotted something down in his notebook before hastily turning the page. “This is… rather serious.”

_ Rather serious. _ Corimir bit his tongue against the insubordination that threatened to slip from between his lips. Instead he remained quiet, nodding once. 

“We knew the Stormcloaks were brutal and violent. But we did not anticipate them to commit such... severe war crimes. I’m truly sorry for what you’ve been made to endure.” Rulindil actually looked up to meet his gaze this time, his dark, beady eyes remaining emotionless despite his plaintive tone and wistful words. 

Corimir said nothing, his jaw clenched tight and as hard as iron. He preferred the Jurisreeve’s squirming discomfort over his mechanical platitudes. Finally, he managed another nod, tearing his eyes away. 

“I believe that will be all the questions I have for now.” Rulindil got to his feet, closing his journal and tucking it beneath his arm. “Ambassador Elenwen will be with you shortly.” 

A small spark of panic flared in Corimir’s chest. “Why?” He took a stuttering breath as Rulindil’s eyes flickered to his face. “I-I mean… were my answers not sufficient?” 

“Sufficiency has little to do with any of this, Corporal.” Rulindil offered a thin, too-pleasant smile. “If you were honest and forthright in your answers, then you have little to fear. However, we must be thorough.” His gaze flitted down to the hour glass then back to Corimir. “I’m sure you’re well familiar with protocol.”

“Yes,” Corimir said automatically. “My apologies, Jurisreeve.” 

Rulindil nodded, then swept from the room without another word.

Corimir swallowed, a soft ringing swelling to a piercing crescendo in his ears. He’d been honest. He’d been forthright. He’d kept any and all pertinent information from the Stormcloaks. He’d done his duty. He was fine. 

The walls shimmered in his periphery, drawing closer. 

He reviewed the past half hour in his mind, trying to remember exactly what he’d said. It had all  _ just happened. _ He should be able to recall his answers with ease, yet much of his memory refused to play back, as if chunks of the interaction had been cut from his mind. Had he been too casual? Too relaxed? What if he’d said something damning? Maybe he should have allowed himself to appear more traumatized. Or less traumatized. Perhaps Rulindil could see past his composure completely— see the frightened child masquerading in Thalmor’s armor.

The door opened and the walls retreated. Corimir sat up straighter, drawing in a slow, steady breath through his nose. 

Elenwen swept into his periphery, circling the table and settling into the seat across from him. The dark kohl around her eyes caused her to look severe, cunning, like an arctic fox. 

“Good afternoon, Corporal,” she said as she opened her journal, lifting the quil from its inkpot and tapping the point delicately against the rim. “I trust you’re feeling refreshed since yesterday?” 

“Very much so. Thank you, Ambassador.” 

She made a soft humming noise in response, scribbling in silence for what felt like an eternity. Corimir sat so stiff and straight that his low back began to scream in protest, though he didn’t dare move. 

Elenwen gazed up from beneath her lashes, one brow cocked, and said: “Please relax, Corporal.”

Corimir let out a breath, sinking back against the chair. “Apologies.” 

The silent scribbling continued and Corimir wondered if this was part of the interrogation technique— if Elenwen would continue to ignore him until his mind broke and he began to spew anything and everything he thought they might want to hear, just to get out of that damn room.

“Tell me, Corporal.” Elenwen set her quill down, folding her hands together. “What is your impression of Elanwe?” 

Corimir blinked, rendered speechless. “El—Elanwe?”

“You traveled with her for… how long? A little over two weeks?” 

_ She was gone for five of those days, _ Corimir thought, but didn’t say. The question already felt precarious, poised on the head of a pin. “Yes.” His palms had begun to sweat for unknown reasons. How honest should he be? What were the consequences of withholding information? What did they want to hear? “She’s… driven,” he began, mentally thumbing through a list of appropriate words. “Resourceful and clever.”

Elenwen continued to stare directly into his eyes, expressionless, hands still folded atop the table. Waiting. 

“Her language is foul,” Corimir decided to add, feeling the admission would succeed in helping him appear honest without revealing too much. “But she is very… passionate. I owe her a great debt.” 

“And her principles,” Elenwen pressed. “Do you feel they align with Thalmor precepts?” 

“Yes,” Corimir said immediately. Possibly too immediately. “From what I can tell, I mean.” Backtracking. Not good. 

Elenwen tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, a silent question, her hawk-like eyes still boring into his own. 

“She might be too friendly with the natives,” he added simply to fill the silence. “But I can only assume her years as an attaché in Solitude are to blame for that.”

“You believe her to have an affinity for the local Nords? A potential for disloyalty?" 

“No! No, no.” Corimir’s chest clenched in panic. “I didn’t mean— Not just Nords,  _ anyone. _ But I think it may be strategic. She’s friendly to their faces, but still upholds her Aldmeri beliefs in private.” He was speculating. Completely making things up. He swallowed, terrified that he’d said too much. Why was she asking him all this? He was prepared to betray himself, but not someone else. Not Elanwe. 

“And what did she tell you of her mission?” 

Corimir took a deep breath with a small shake of his head. “Nothing. Everything was classified.” He scraped a fingernail across the table as Elenwen continued to stare at him, remaining silent. “All I know is that she was in Windhelm for an unknown period of time before rescuing me. Then, when we stopped in Ivarstead, she made a pilgrimage up the Seven Thousand Steps. She told one of the locals it was to collect rubbings for the Bards College, but I’m sure that was simply her cover story.” Perhaps he shouldn’t have added that part… “When she came back down, she was unable to tell me anything that happened.” 

Elenwen continued to stare, but Corimir was out of words. 

“That’s all I know,” he insisted. 

With a soft sigh, Elenwen closed the journal in front of her and pushed to her feet. Corimir’s heart leapt into his throat. “Thank you Corporal,” she said, smoothing out the sleeves of her robes and holding the journal to her chest. “You’re free to go.” 

Corimir swallowed. “Thank you, Ambassador.”


	6. Chapter 6

Corimir sank down into the bathtub with a sigh. 

He’d been at the Embassy for a full week and finally felt reasonably recovered. At the very least, he felt as rested as he had under Gwilin’s care. The Bosmer still managed to hover in the peripheries of Corimir’s thoughts. It was an irritating feeling: constantly being reminded of someone he was supposed to forget. In the end, he blamed his poor, traumatized mind for latching onto one of the few people to show him kindness after such a terrible ordeal. It was only natural. Basal. And he would be over it soon enough. 

He slipped his head beneath the water, sinking down to the bottom of the tub and resting there for a moment. The water muted his senses, dimming his world to a muffled prism in which he could lie suspended, motionless, untouched. 

He allowed himself to float upwards, surfacing gently and exhaling slowly.

He’d taken a bath almost every night thus far. It was a calming ritual that pulled him back into his own body. He felt safe alone in the bathing room, the door tightly shut and bolted. Nobody could get to him. 

Only when his fingers and toes began to prune did Corimir pull himself from the water, steam rolling off his heat-reddened skin. He dried and dressed, wrapping his hair up in a towel before morosely unbolting the door. 

Once back in his room, the creeping dread began to return. He immediately began to towel dry his hair, aggressively brushing through the tangles as he stared blankly at the wooden floor. He dumped his old clothes into the to-be-washed bin by the door, then walked to the other side of the room, only to turn around and walk back towards the door. His feet continued to move as his mind began to wander. 

Elanwe had been gone for almost a full week.

She’d disappeared the day of their interrogations without a word. He’d half convinced himself she’d been swiftly executed, or perhaps was being held captive in the rumored interrogation cells that were located somewhere in the Embassy. Either way, he’d been too frightened to ask after her. 

In general, Corimir had been perpetually frightened since arriving at the Embassy. 

He’d been assigned busywork during the day. Clerical-type duties: sorting paperwork, stuffing envelopes, checking lists, organizing bookshelves. It was absolutely below him and he hoped they never realized just how much he  _ enjoyed _ the work. It was soothing in a way he desperately needed, which was as embarrassing as it was relieving. So he kept his head down and did what he was told, hoping his actions translated into obedience and not complacency. 

The walls of his room had begun to squeeze closer and Corimir strode to the door, pulled it open, and stepped out into the hallway.

It was late in the evening and the building lay silent and still. There was nowhere to go, no one to talk to or to offer words of comfort in the too-quiet hours. But he couldn’t stay in his room, where the silence pressed in from all sides, slowly squeezing the air from his lungs. Where every little noise reminded him of the distant echoes of the Windhelm prison.

His gaze dropped to his dinner tray placed outside the door— the way the Khajiit always requested. Perhaps… he’d take it to her. Save her the trip. Yes. Besides, it might be useful to know where the kitchens were. Anything to be away from his cold, empty room.

He stooped to pick up the tray and his low back twinged only once as he straightened up. He padded silently down the hall, his bare feet shushing softly against the worn wooden floorboards. All the other doors in the hall were closed, silence behind them. He wandered further and descended the stairs to the lower level. He stopped suddenly, stomach dropping when he rounded the bend in the steps. Two guards in full armor stood leaning over a small counter, their helmets off and several bottles gathered between the two of them. They both straightened as Corimir came into view, eyes narrowing and smiles sliding from their faces. 

“Do you need something?” one asked as the other surreptitiously attempted to hide the empty bottles from view. 

“I’m just taking this to the kitchen,” Corimir said, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ll return to my room immediately after.” 

“The Khajiit picks those up in the morning,” the other guard pointed out. “It was unnecessary for you to leave your room.” 

“I’m… a bit hungry, also,” Corimir lied, his heart thudding against his ribs. 

“Ah. Well, return to your room as soon as you're done.” 

Corimir ducked his head with a mumbled thanks, skittering around them and then stopping short, looking right, then looking left. “Er…. which way is the kitchen?” 

His question was met with a heavy sigh and a point. “Out that door, make a right, then through the larder.”

“Right. Thank you. Sorry.” 

The ground level had a stone floor, making Corimir regret his shoelessness. His frost-scarred feet ached as he made his way down the hall and through the cellar. The air grew warmer, and when he pushed through the final door, a blessed blast of heat greeted him. 

This kitchen sprawled before him, lit by a flickering fire in the stone oven and a few scattered sconces. The entire room smelled of garlic and herbs, and Corimir was immediately reminded of Gwilin’s hut in a crushing, melancholic wave of sense memory— a bone-weary ache to be back there, in the company of the small mer. 

There was a sharp, short hiss from across the room.

“Why do you come to Tsavani’s kitchen?” The Khajiit sat reclined near the fire, a small pipe in one hand and a large wooden bowl at her feet.

“Oh, er… I—” 

“Corimir?”

Startled by the sound of his own name, Corimir blinked hard, squinting into the low light. When his eyes finally adjusted, he found the source of the voice. Next to Tsavani sat Elanwe, still in full armor. A plate of half-eaten food rested on one knee, and her pack, sword, and bow leaned against the back of the chair. 

She immediately cast her plate aside, sprang to her feet, and strode over to Corimir in the doorway. He barely had time to register what was happening before her arms were slung around his neck and he was pulled into an awkward hug, the empty tray pressing into his stomach between them.

“You’re back,” he said stupidly, noting that her hair smelled faintly of smoke and sulfur. 

“Miraculously,” she agreed with a laugh. She pulled back to grasp his shoulders, smiling from ear to ear. “Come, come sit down. What’s that?” She gestured to the tray. 

He looked to Tsavani, then to Elanwe, then down at his tray. “I was just… bringing my empty tray down. To save her a trip.” 

Tsavani let out a low, raspy laugh from over near the fire, leaning back in her chair and bringing the pipe to her lips. “You are a sweet child,” she purred around the stem. “Set it down on the long table and join us.”

Corimir did as he was told, momentarily in shock. Elanwe was all smiles, pulling up an extra chair and dusting off the seat, saying something in Ta’agra to Tsavani that made the Khajiit let out another raspy laugh. 

“I didn’t know you spoke Khajiiti,” Corimir murmured. 

“Oh I barely do.” 

“Like a cub,” Tsavani added with a crooked smile, smoke curling from her nostrils.

Corimir didn’t know what to say. He found himself staring blankly at Elanwe’s face. She was covered in grime. The scar from her encounter with the troll had healed into a silvery thin line across her cheek, though a new gash bisected one of her eyebrows. The situation felt surreal. He’d resigned Elanwe to death. Or at least gone from his life forever. Now here she was, laughing and joking in another language as if she hadn’t dropped off the face of Nirn for nearly an entire week.

“Where have you been?” He sounded more desperate than he would have liked and he bit the inside of his cheeks when Elanwe gave him a pitying look. 

“Filling in my map,” she said with a strained laugh. “I swear it feels like I’ve run the entire length of the Reach and Haafingar this past week. I could walk the road between here and Dragon Bridge blindfolded. Did you know there’s a temple to Meridia not half a mile from here?” She seemed to be asking Tsavani more than Corimir. The Khajiit shrugged and shook her head, taking a long pull from her pipe.

“Why didn’t you say anything when you left?” Corimir felt like a petulant child, but now that the shock had worn off, the familiar pulse of anger began to bleed through his composure. “I thought you were dead.”

Elanwe’s smile dropped, her eyes going wide. “Oh… Corimir, I’m—” She glanced to Tsavani then back to him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think… They gave me a new mission and sent me off immediately. I barely had time to pack. I’d hoped they would have told you—” 

“They didn’t tell me anything,” Corimir snapped. “So I assumed the worst.” 

“Well how relieved you must be, then, to see your friend alive.” Tsavani’s voice held a note of warning— something strict and maternal that made Corimir sink down into his chair. 

Elanwe cleared her throat, staring down at her boots for a long moment. “I am sorry,” she repeated. She offered him her plate. “Would you like to share?” 

“Table scraps as a peace offering?” Corimir sneered. 

Tsavani let out another short, sharp hiss, shaking her head when Corimir jerked to look at her. “Respect,” was all she said. 

Corimir’s nostrils flared, a biting remark poised on the tip of his tongue, but he took the plate instead, offering a mumbled ‘thank you’ in return. A terse silence followed as he picked at the remnants of Elanwe’s seared slaughterfish, eyes downcast. 

“Here,” Elanwe said after a moment. “Let me show you…” 

She twisted to grab her pack, plopping it between her feet with a surprisingly loud thud. After digging around for only a moment, she procured… a mask. It was of Nordic make, or so Corimir assumed, thick and coppery in color. Its eyes were carved into stylized slits, mouth downturned with an air of gravity. Corimir gawked. 

“Tsavani does not like this thing.” 

He looked to the Khajiit to see the fur around her neck puffed, her ears flattened and expression tight. He turned back to Elanwe, setting the plate of food on the ground. “What is it?” 

Elanwe sighed as if the question made her weary. “The mask of the Dragon Priest,  _ Volsung _ .” She spoke the name the way the Nords might, softening the ‘v’, deepening the ‘u’. To his surprise, she held the mask out for Corimir to take. “He nearly killed me.” 

“He was alive!?” Corimir had almost taken the mask but quickly pulled his arms to his chest. “How?!” 

Elanwe’s eyes glittered in the firelight, her brow drawn tight. “The same way the dragons are returning. Resurrection.” 

“And this…” Corimir tentatively reached out again, taking the mask from her hands. It was heavy. Enchantment hummed along its surface, tingling up his arms. “This was the mission you were given?”

Elanwe let out a long breath through her nose, her jaw tight. 

“I know,” Corimir said beneath his breath. He ran a thumb over the eye slit of the mask thoughtfully. “Classified.” 

“My mission,” Elanwe began, her tone hushed, “has been, and continues to be, to study the dragon language. To locate texts, ancient word walls, burial sites...” She sighed, slumping forward, elbows resting against her knees. “Dangerous business.”

Corimir turned the mask over in his hands, brushing his fingertips along the inside.  _ The dragon language. _ So that’s why she’d visited the Greybeards— why she was in Windhelm. He handed the mask back. “To what end?” 

Elanwe offered a weary smile. “I don’t know.” 

The cellar door swung open and one of the guards from earlier marched in. 

“You were instructed to return to your room,” he barked at Corimir, stopping short when his eyes fell to Elanwe. “Oh— You’ve returned.”

She’d already slipped the mask back to her pack unnoticed and got to her feet with a smile. “That I have! I was just sharing a quick meal with Corimir here, but we’ll be returning to our rooms now. Thanks for checking in.” 

“Of course, mistress.” The guard offered a small bow, his disposition nervous. “Have a pleasant rest of your evening.”

Corimir looked up at Elanwe with a renewed sense of awe. And a small amount of fear. She returned his gaze with something soft. Reassuring. 

“Tsavani, thank you so much for the warm meal. I was absolutely starved from being on the road.” She propped her pack up on the chair and reached into one of the front pockets, procuring a small, velvet bag and tossing it to the Khajiit. 

Tsavani caught it with one hand. She tugged loose the string and dipped a finger inside, then brought it to her mouth and licked it. “Perfect,” she purred. “Many blessings upon you, Elanwe.”

Elanwe simply winked, then turned to Corimir. “Curfew awaits, I suppose. Shall we?”

— 

Corimir only had to wait a half hour before Elanwe came knocking. 

She’d changed into a soft shift and linen pants, he skin clean and pinkened from a quick scrubbing. She immediately leapt into his bed, snuggling beneath the covers with a loud groan. 

“I’ve missed beds,” she lamented. “Fucking bedrolls and haylofts and musty caves…” 

“I can still smell all of it on you,” Corimir ribbed. 

“I bathed!”

“By Nordic standards, perhaps.” 

This earned Corimir a pillow to the face. 

He retaliated in full, smacking Elanwe so hard with his pillow that a bit of down went flying out the seams. 

“Are you trying to wage war!?” she laughed. 

Corimir couldn’t help but grin. “Perhaps.” 

“Oh, then let’s have it, soldier.”

It was ludicrous, but the stirring in Corimir’s chest was so sweet and full that he felt fit to burst. They balanced on their knees on the bed, making an absolute mess of the pillows as they used more strength than necessary attempting to lop off each other’s heads. By the time they’d worn themselves out, they were breathless from exertion and stifled laughter, and the bed and floor were covered in soft white feathers. 

“What a mess,” Elanwe said, wiping her forehead on the back of her arm. “Look what you’ve done.” 

“What  _ I’ve _ done!?” 

“You started it!” 

He lunged across the bed, bear hugging Elanwe into submission as she laughed and squirmed, weakly attempting to push him away. The swell of her breasts pressed against him, soft and warm beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. It caused his breath to catch and his heart to stutter. Elanwe’s laughter tapered off, leaving nothing but her labored breath in its wake. 

“Corimir,” she said softly, sternly. 

Corimir pulled back, looking down at her. She was beautiful, despite the scars that now mangled her face. Beneath the rough and tumble visage and the hardened muscle were still the soft curves of a woman. A woman who enjoyed his company. 

_ She _ should be the one he thought about at night.  _ She _ should be the object of his desire. Not some filthy little Bosmer. He needed to prove himself— to prove he was still fit for a proper life, capable of passing on his heritage, of being a  _ proper _ Altmer. He closed his eyes and leaned down. 

A hand pressed against his chest, halting his movement. 

“Don’t.” 

Corimir’s eyes snapped open. Elanwe was looking up at him with a pleading expression.

_ Don’t. _

The word cracked through his mind like a thunderclap. Something he’d said before. Many times before. So many times that the word had lost its meaning, reduced to a desperate chant. A fearful prayer. But there was no fear behind Elanwe’s eyes as she gazed up from beneath him. Only pity. 

Heat flooded his face and ears— shame and self-loathing so hot it threatened to cremate him from the inside out. He jerked backwards, scrambling away across the bed. 

“It’s alright!” Elanwe was saying. Her voice had turned dull and watery in his ears. “I just… don’t feel that way about you. You’re like a little brother.”

Corimir pulled his knees to his chest, shoving his back against one of the posts at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, unable to make his vision focus. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, hey…” 

The corners of the room had faded into creeping black shadows, drawing closer as his vision tunneled. 

“Corimir.” 

He was a poor, broken fool. An idiot. A child playing soldier. Trying to be his father. He never should have left Auridon. Never should have— 

_ “Corimir.” _

A hand on his knee pulled him back into the room, the walls springing up around him, the bed materializing beneath him. Corimir’s eyes refocused, snapping to Elanwe where she crouched on the bed in front of him. 

There was fear in her eyes now. 

“Please leave,” he whispered. 

“What!? Corimir, that’s—”

“Leave!” he yelled, his voice quavering, threatening to crack. She’d seen him cry before, so what did it matter? What did  _ any _ of it matter? 

Elanwe slid off the bed, standing beside it for a long moment to stare at him. “My room is down the hall, second door on the right.” And then she left, closing the door quietly behind her. 

Corimir let out a choked-off sob, curling back in on himself, pressing his forehead to his knees as his body shuddered. He’d ruined everything. And now he was acting like a child,  _ again. _ Had there ever been a point in his life when he’d handled things well? Maturely? Had the Nord really hollowed him out into this husk of his former self? What even  _ was _ his former self? Perhaps he’d always been like this… 

He rubbed his nose along the outside of his arm, leaving a trail of snot that made him feel even more miserable. 

How could he move forward from  _ this _ ? The idea of facing Elanwe again was a thought worse than death. His one friend, the person who saved him, and he had tried to force himself onto her. And for what? Did he really feel that way about her? Or was it just another experiment? 

His eyes flitted to the small line of bottles on the shelf by his bed, then away again.

At the very least he owed her an apology. Yet his body refused to uncurl. His legs remained locked to his chest even as his low back began to scream in pain. Slowly, painfully, he straightened one leg, then the other, gently twisted until both his feet were on the floor. He leaned forward into a stretch, brushing the tips of his fingers across the tops of his feat, groaning and wincing as his back throbbed. The ache faded marginally as he sat up. 

He looked back to the bottles again, shuffling along the side of the bed and taking one into his hands. He wondered what Gwilin was doing in that moment— perhaps he was asleep. It was late after all. Or maybe he was still awake, making some sort of herbal concoction, hunched over his mortar and pestle. He wondered if Gwilin was lonely, if he ever thought about Corimir— even half as much as Corimir thought of him, which was already an embarrassing amount. Corimir hoped he wasn’t lonely… 

He ran his thumb along the outside of the bottle before placing it reverently back on the shelf. He felt calmer. And determined. 

With a deep breath, he got to his feet and moved towards the door. His hand hovered hesitantly over the handle for only a moment before he opened it and stepped out into the hallway.  _ Second to the right, _ Corimir replayed in his head. He tiptoed across the wooden floor as quietly as he could manage, pulse pounding in his ears. When he reached the correct door, he held up a fist to knock, paused, then knocked so softly he wasn’t sure if it would be audible. 

He heard Elanwe say something affirmative from the other side, so he pushed into the room. 

Hers really  _ was _ nicer than his. She lay propped up against the pillows in a lare, four-poster bed, candles still burning, a book in her lap, wearing an expression of… not anger. Not haughty expectation like Corimir had half-expected. She wore something neutral— expectationless— as if she had simply been waiting for him. 

Corimir drew a slow breath. “Can… we forget that happened?”

To his surprise, and strained relief, Elanwe laughed. “I think we should talk about it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Well.” She shrugged. “I do.” 

Corimir sighed loudly, falling back against the door. 

“Do you really have feelings for me?” Elanwe asked. 

He blinked. That wasn’t quite the question he’d expected. So forward and to-the-point. It took a moment for the whir of his mind to catch up in order to formulate a response. “I… don’t think so,” he said slowly. “I don’t know.” He ran a hand over his eyes. Perhaps he’d be attracted to anyone who showed him basic kindness moving forward. 

“I can’t speak for you, or begin to know what’s going on in your head,” Elanwe began. “But it’s alright to simply… not think about these kinds of things. For a while. For as long as you want.” 

_ Because you were kept as a sex slave,  _ Corimir mentally filled the empty air between them. Yes, he understood what she was saying. This understanding did nothing to quell the rage that roiled in his stomach. He  _ wanted  _ to think about ‘these kinds of things’. He wanted to feel  _ normal _ . 

He just  _ didn’t _ want the focus of those thoughts to be centered around a damnable Bosmer. 

“Come here,” Elanwe said, throwing the covers back and patting the bed. 

Corimir’s feet moved without his permission. The invitation was too tempting. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled even as he crawled across the mattress. “It was foolish of me.” 

Elanwe shrugged again, opening up an arm and pulling Corimir against her. “We’re all guilty of stupid things…”

“So you agree that it was stupid.” 

“Shut up, I’m not finished.” 

Corimir huffed a laugh and it felt like a breath of relief. He pressed his face against her shoulder, curling an arm around her stomach. She smelled like flowers— that same scent he’d noticed from the very first day he met her. The memory rocketed him back to the rickety carriage, the blistering cold, the image of the Palace of the Kings dipping beneath the horizon. He pulled her closer with a shudder. 

“...but even Auri-El once made a mistake,” Elanwe continued. “And his mercy and efforts to correct that mistake are what give us hope.” 

“Suddenly you’re a temple priestess.” 

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Elanwe sighed, wrapping her arms around Corimir’s shoulders, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Fine, see if I ever attempt to wax poetic for you again.” 

Corimir’s head tingled where her lips had been. “I’d prefer if you spoke plainly.”

“I’ve been at the Bards College for far too long to ever speak plainly again.” She rested her chin against the top of his head and fell silent.

“If…” Corimir began to speak and immediately wished he hadn’t, yet he burned with indignant curiosity. “If you have no romantic feelings for me, why do you do this?” 

Elanwe let out a surprised little chuckle. “What, cuddle?” 

“Yes,” Corimir gritted through a clenched jaw. “Among other things.” 

“I don’t see how any of this has to be romantic.” She shifted, running a hand along the outside of Corimir’s arm. “I care about you. I want you to feel safe.” 

“So you want to be my mother.”

“For fuck’s sake, Corimir. There are more roles for women in your life than ‘mother’ or ‘lover’.” 

Heat flooded his face and ears and he tried to pull away. “I wasn’t implying that!” 

Elanwe laughed and held fast, pressing another kiss to his hair followed by a long sigh. “I don’t know.” Her breath was hot against his scalp. “Maybe I’m just different. I’ve never really understood romance all that well. All the great epics and poems I’ve had to read at the College… It seems like a whole lot of hullabaloo over nothing.” 

“Love is hullabaloo?” 

“No, no… What I mean is...” She sighed loudly in performative irritation. “I don’t get the difference. Why just pick  _ one _ person to feel that deeply for? Friends, lovers… I don’t see why there has to be a distinction. Why not love everyone with that same passion?” 

“Not everyone deserves that kind of love,” Corimir argued. 

Elanwe said nothing to that, staying quiet for a long moment before pulling Corimir closer. “We should get some sleep. It’s terribly late.” 

“If you insist.” 

“You’re such a grump.”

Corimir smiled against her shoulder. She was so strange. Completely unorthodox. Her confession was more dangerous than she probably realized. He wasn’t sure of her age, but she’d never once mentioned marriage, nor children. His mind drifted back to Elenwen’s questioning:  _ And her principles. Do you feel they align with Thalmor precepts? _

Elanwe  _ trusted _ him. She spoke her mind when they were together, holding little back. And whatever else, she desired his company. While there was still a small twist of pain from her rejection, he valued her honesty. It was more than he’d been afforded for nearly his entire life. 

He slid from the bed to extinguish the candles and bank the coals in the hearth before crawling back beneath the covers. Warm arms enveloped him once again and he sighed into the darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to jottingprosaist for being such a wonderful beta. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to jottingprosaist for being such an amazing, informative beta (and enthusiastic cheerleader). Your input is so valuable to me!

_ Dear Mother, _

Corimir chewed on the end of the pen as he stared at the blank sheet of parchment. He’d been mentally composing this letter for weeks and physically composing it on a wax tablet for almost an hour. Now, with the ink of the first two words seeping into the paper, it seemed like an impossible task. How was one supposed to tell their mother that they weren’t dead? 

_ I am writing to inform you that I am alive and well. I apologize for any grief that might have been caused by the false reports of my death. _

Oh, brilliant, Corimir. Very heart-felt. He pressed his tongue against the back of his lower lip, scowling down at the paper. Too late to change it now. 

_ I was held captive by Stormcloak soldiers for three months before being rescued by a Dominion agent. I’m happy to say that I’ve made a full recovery. _

‘Lying to your mother already?’ the nagging voice in the back of his mind asked. Corimir mentally snarled at himself. What was he supposed to do? Honesty, in this instance, was out of the question, not to mention unproductive.

_ My case is still being reviewed, but I’m hoping to return to Summerset on temporary leave. My goals of eventual promotion are still at the forefront of my mind.  _

Who are you trying to convince?

_ I hope you are in good health and look forward to your return letter. _   
  
As he reached the end of the letter, it felt too short. Too unemotional. Surely his mother would see through his stiff, sterile formalities. Then again, he was simply doing what she’d taught him to do. Be polite, reserved, dignified. Keep your expression neutral at all times. Never let them see… 

_ “We’ll see how long it takes you to break, elf.” _

Corimir set the pen down and closed his eyes, inhaling slowly through his nose then out through his mouth. 

He was in his room in the Thalmor embassy. It was slightly past noon on Fredas, the twenty-second of Sun’s Dawn. He was safe. 

After another breath he opened his eyes and gazed down at the letter. With a slightly unsteady hand, he picked up the pen and added the final line.

_ Your son,  _ _  
_ _ Corimir _

Tears welled in the corners of his eyes and he quickly wiped them away along the back of his arm, sniffing loudly. He blew across the paper before folding it into thirds, addressing it, and sealing it with shimmering silver wax and the unofficial Dominion stamp. The letter felt heavy in his hands as he made his way from his room, down the hall and the stairs, and slid it into the outgoing box for the courier to retrieve. He swallowed and stepped away. 

Unwilling to return to his room, he meandered through the downstairs of the Embassy. The building was usually quiet, but even more so in the mid-day hours between the bustle of morning and the sedated rituals of evening. Mindlessly, he wandered through the cellar and pushed into the kitchen. 

Tsavani was at one of the long tables, chopping something at an alarming speed. Leeks, by the smell of it. Her ears swiveled backwards when he entered, her head snapping to look in his direction immediately after.

“Corimir,” she said. The r’s in his name rolled through her mouth like a purr. “What do you need, child?”

“Ah…” He blinked hard, feeling suddenly disoriented. “Nothing. I… I was just wandering. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

Tsavani laughed low in her throat, turning back to the chopping block in front of her. “The allure of the kitchen is strong. This one always finds herself in them. Not just to work.” She beckoned him over with the flick of her wrist. “Come. Taste.” 

Corimir shuffled over, wondering distantly how he’d managed to get himself on a first-name basis with the cook. 

Large bowls of various chopped ingredients lined the back of the long table, accompanied by cuts of salted meats glistening in the low light of the hearthfire. It was more food than Corimir had seen in years. 

“Is this what you have to make every day?” he asked, a little bewildered. 

Tsavani shook her head with a low chuckle, assembling a few of the ingredients on a slice of dense bread. “Thank the moons, no. This is for the party this evening. Tsavani would quit if she was made to cook like this every day.” 

“Party?” Corimir couldn’t recall hearing anything about a party. 

“Yes.” She offered him the fully-assembled treat: crisp dark greens, thinly sliced radish, cured river salmon, and a smear of something creamy across the rough surface of the bread. “Mistress Elenwen hosts them monthly, inviting half of the wealthiest citizens in Skyrim, of course.” She let out a slow hiss through her teeth, shaking her head. “Many hungry mouths and  _ rich _ appetites.”

Corimir took a bite and groaned involuntarily.  _ Divines, _ it was delicious. Tsavani laughed and turned back to her chopping as Corimir gobbled it down and greedily licked the creamed cheese from his fingers. He decided that he was  _ very _ alright with being on a first-name basis with the cook.

“Have you seen Elanwe?” he asked after a beat. 

Tsavani chuckled, continuing to chop. “You follow that girl around like a lost cub.” 

“I absolutely do not!” Corimir protested, his face and hands growing hot. “She’s my friend! I’m just asking if you’ve seen her!” 

“Mmm, such a strong reaction.” Tsavani set her knife down and leaned against the table. She turned to Corimir with one hand propped against her hip. “In Elsweyr we have saying:  _ anger responds to truth.” _

“Do you know where she is or not?” Corimir asked through his teeth. 

Tsavani gave him a long, hard look before she turned away again, smiling slightly. “This one does not.” Corimir’s eye twitched. “But she will most likely be at the fancy party this evening. Find her there.” 

“I wasn’t invited.” 

“Then act like you were.”

Corimir opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. He pursed his lips. “What do you mean? Sneak into the party?” 

“This one said nothing about sneaking.” Tsavani pushed the pile of chopped leek to the side with her knife before starting in on another one. “But you are Thalmor. You blend in like a fly on the wall.” 

“I’m not so sure about that…” 

“Tsavani knows how these parties go. By six o’clock they are all in their cups. Nobody would notice.” 

Corimir tongued the inside of his cheek for a moment, mulling the decision over. “Thank you for the food,” he said after another moment. “It was very good.” 

“You are welcome,” Tsavani replied, smiling over her shoulder. “You are a good child under that thick armor you wear. Tsavani can see it.”

“I’m not a child.” 

She shrugged, sighing. “We are all children to someone.” 

— 

It was half-past six when Corimir ascended the steps to the main building— the great hall where Elenwen hosted her parties. Tsavani was correct, as it turned out. He held his head high, nodded to the guards as he passed, and nobody asked for an invitation or identification. His sleek Thalmor robes spoke for themselves. He felt one hundred feet tall.

As he pushed through the main doors, Elenwen greeted him with a puzzled look on her face. 

“Corporal,” she said, giving him a downward-sweeping glance. “What brings you here this evening?” 

“Elanwe mentioned the event,” he lied, straightening his back and lifting his chin. “She asked me to accompany her.” 

“Well that’s odd,” Elenwen replied, her voice low and even. “I didn’t know she intended to attend this evening. She’s been off the grounds since mid-morning.” 

_ Shit _ . “I believe she intended to be back in time for the festivities. Though,” he looked over his shoulder, “it seems she might be a bit late.” He offered a thin smile, sweat beading along the back of his neck. “If you’d rather I leave—” 

“Of course not,” Elenwen insisted with a thin smile of her own. “Use this as an opportunity to connect. An up-and-coming member of the Thalmor such as yourself should be making allies in these strange times.” She raised her glass and Corimir crossed an arm over his chest and bowed stiffly. His heart thudded in his ears.

With Elenwen’s nonverbal dismissal, he made a direct line for the bar. The man behind the counter was a short, wiry haired Bosmer and,  _ fantastic—  _ Corimir’s mind was already drifting to Gwilin. He’d never be rid of the mer. This unfamiliar Bosmer looked nothing like him and  _ everything _ like him at the same time: ruddy hair, dark eyes, pointed chin, wide mouth... 

“What’ll it be?” the mer asked with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Corimir assessed the various bottles that lined the bartop a silver ewer caught his eye. “Is that metheglin?” 

“It is.” The Bosmer was already hefting the pitcher into his hand. “First pour is on the house for Elenwen’s agents.” 

“I shall have that, then.” Corimir could be an agent for the evening. He accepted his glass and began to turn away before pausing. “Do you…” He cleared his throat. “Sorry.” 

“Is there something else?” The mer sounded impatient behind his forced smile, the consonants of his words sharp and over-annunciated. 

“Er… I was just going to ask if you… happened to know someone by the name of Gwilin?”  _ Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid, Corimir. _

The Bosmer’s smile widened slightly, his eyes remaining dull and expressionless. “Not all Bosmer know each other, sir.” 

“Right. I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t implying…” Corimir cleared his throat again. “Sorry,” he repeated, and walked away, heat flooding his face. 

_ And what would you have done if he’d said yes? _ Corimir asked himself, retreating to a darkened spot against the far wall.  _ What answer were you looking for? _ He took a quick sip of the metheglin, holding the sweet liquor on his tongue until it began to burn. He swallowed and immediately took another.  _ Contact _ , came the answer. Any kind of contact. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. He wasn’t among friends. Anything could be used against him. If Gwilin’s name somehow reached Elenwen’s ears… 

Corimir shuddered, feeling foolish and sick. He drained his cup quick enough to make himself light-headed but refused to return to the bar. Instead, he remained glued to the wall, eyes scanning the room, sliding from unfamiliar face to unfamiliar face. There was  _ one _ person he recognized but dared not approach. Head Justiciar Ondolemar was mid-conversation with a squat Nord in fine robes. He towered over the rest of the room, every bit as poised and elegant as Corimir remembered from the first time he’d met him. Though ‘met’ was a stretch. He was quite sure the mer did not remember him. 

The front door opened as more people arrived: a stately Nord woman in a fine dress as well as an already-intoxicated Redguard. Corimir studied Elenwen as she greeted them graciously. The way she held herself, the delicate incline of her head— every mannerism welcoming without being overly accommodating. He took mental notes, unconsciously mimicking her stance.

He wondered where Elanwe was. Perhaps in another cold, dark tomb, battling undead Dragon Priests. The thought was absurd. How she’d gone from an attaché to a classified field agent, Corimir still hadn’t a clue. She barely had the physique of a soldier, much less of someone who should be running dangerous solo missions. 

The front door opened and another Nord stepped inside, kicking the snow from his boots. 

_ Nords everywhere. _ Corimir wanted another drink. He watched the Bosmer serve the new guests with the same tight smile. The hatred behind his eyes was ill-concealed. Nasty little thing. Corimir had no business fraternizing with Wood Elves. They were brothers and sisters only in theory, allies to the Dominion not by their own better judgement but by begrudging force. He should toss out those damn bottles in his room and properly move on from whatever this lingering obsession was.

Another cold breeze swept through the room as the front door opened once more, drawing Corimir’s eye. 

Ice cold terror ripped through his veins, splitting open his chest and squeezing tight his throat. Time seemed to stop.

It was  _ him. _

For a split second, Corimir’s mind attempted to rationalize what his eyes were seeing. A look-alike. A ghost. He was seeing things— projecting his tormentor onto the face of an innocent. But soon the Nord was speaking to Elenwen and the rumbling of his voice had Corimir scrambling along the wall, wide eyes never leaving the Dragonborn’s face. 

He had to get away. He had to…

His hand fumbled blindly against the wall as he inched his way towards the only visible door behind the bar with little care as to where it might lead. Anywhere.  _ Anywhere _ but here. His hand touched the knob and he twisted, stumbling backwards into the room just as the Nord’s gaze lifted to look around him. 

Corimir closed the door as quietly as he could manage, his entire body shaking. He found himself in a small stock room with a second door on the other side and he lunged for it, putting two doors between himself and the Nord. He searched for a way to lock himself in but found none. 

“Corimir?” came a familiar voice behind him. He turned around to discover that he was in the kitchen. Tsavani was near the hearth, her hair pulled into a high bun on her head, a stained apron wrapped around her waist. “By Jone and Jode, boy, you look like you have seen the dead rise.” 

“You have to hide me,” he demanded, stumbling across the kitchen towards her. “Please. Please hide me. Turn me invisible. Anything! Please!”

“Calm yourself, cub.” She took one of his shaking hands into hers. “Explain to Tsavani what is happening.” 

“No time! Please!” He let out a sob, then immediately snatched his hand away to cover his mouth. Fearful that he might have been heard, he glanced over his shoulder at the door. “Please,” he whispered through his fingers. 

Tsavani’s ears were pressed flat against her head, the fur around her neck puffed. She nodded once, taking Corimir by his upper arm and leading him to a narrow door off to the side of the room. She took a key from her dress pocket and jammed it into the lock, throwing her weight against the door to open it. The bottom boards scraped loudly against the stone floor. Inside was a small, windowless bedchamber. A dead end. 

“You can stay in here as long as you need,” she said. “But please. Tell this one what has you in such a state.” 

Corimir pressed himself up against one of the walls, out of eyeline from the door. “There…” He took a shuddering inhale. “There’s a dangerous man here.” Oh Divines, he had to warn Elenwen. Justiciar Ondolemar.  _ Any of them. _ “I don’t know what to do. I can’t… I just ran.”  _ You’re a coward, _ his mind declared _. _ Yes, maybe he was. He looked to Tsavani. “He can’t find me. Don’t let him find me. But we  _ have _ to let the Ambassador know.” 

“You will be safe in here,” Tsavani promised, gripping his shoulders tightly. Her ears swiveled backwards, her head jerking to look behind her. “Stay quiet.” 

She pulled away, walking back out into the kitchen and closing the door most of the way behind her, leaving only a sliver of light from the burning hearthfire.

Corimir held his breath, shivering uncontrollably. His terror outweighed how pathetic and useless he felt, but the feelings were quickly leveling. This could be a chance to prove himself. And he had the upper hand, here. The Nord was outnumbered— a lone wolf among a pack of lions. Corimir _had_ _the advantage_. He’d just been startled, was all, and who could blame him? 

As his pulse began to slow and his tremors subside, he inched his way towards the door in time to hear Tsavani speak. 

“Who comes, Malborn? You know Tsavani does not like strange smells in her kitchen.” 

A low, melodic male voice replied saying something Corimir couldn’t catch. It was the Bosmer from behind the bar. 

“A guest? In the kitchens? You know this is against the rules.”

The Bosmer, Malborn, said something else, his tone sharp, smug. Tsavani hissed. 

“Get out of here. This one saw nothing.”

Still pressed against the wall, Corimir peered through the crack in the door, but he was unable to see anything past the hearthfire. Then a shadow blocked his vision and he scrambled backwards. It was Tsavani attempting to quietly open the door, ears pressed flat when the wooden boards scraped across the stone despite her care. 

“Malborn just brought someone through the kitchens,” she whispered, lip curling. 

“What did he look like?” 

“Tall Nord. Blond hair and beard. Brown overcoat.” 

A new wave of nausea swept over Corimir. He swallowed. “That’s him.” 

“Now is your chance to find the Ambassador. Quickly! But stay quiet.”

Tsavani stepped to the side, allowing Corimir to slide out of the thin doorway and move quietly back towards the door to the main room. Halfway across the room, the cellar door opened and the Bosmer Malborn emerged, his back to Corimir as he closed the door quietly behind him. 

When he turned around, Corimir was already on him, one gloved hand pressed to his wide mouth, the other fisting the front of his shirt. Malborn made a startled noise as he was dragged across the room and slammed against the stone wall. 

“Do you…” Corimir’s voice was shaking as he whispered, “have  _ any idea…  _ what you’ve just done!?” He pressed his hand harder against Malborn’s mouth, relishing the fear in the small creature’s eyes. A rabbit in a hunter’s snare. “Do you have  _ any idea _ who that man is??” 

“Child!” Tsavani hissed from somewhere behind him. “No time!”

Corimir had the brief fantasy of gouging Malborn’s eyes out with his thumbs, but the vision passed as quickly as it came. Instead, he grabbed the front of Malborn’s shirt with both hands and hurled him out of the way with more strength than he’d realized he was capable of. The Bosmer hit the ground with a soft yelp, tumbling across the stone and hitting the far wall. 

It was difficult to breathe. Corimir’s fear had been replaced with throbbing anger, heat flooding into his arms and hands as he shook with rage. He glanced at Tsavani, who was currently looking at Malborn with flattened ears. 

“Watch him,” Corimir commanded. “He’s a traitor.”

The small elf had righted himself and sat against the wall, curling forward around his knees and hiding his face in his arms as he shook. 

Corimir took a deep breath and smoothed down his hair in an attempt to regain his composure. With one final breath, he stepped back out into the party. 

The drunken Redguard was making a scene on the opposite end of the hall, drawing almost everyone’s attention. Corimir slipped between the bodies and placed a hand on Elenwen’s elbow. 

“Ambassador, we have a very serious problem.” 

—

Elenwen’s solar was strewn with bodies when they arrived. Corimir felt ill. Perhaps if he’d acted sooner these deaths could have been prevented. 

He had changed into proper armor and regrouped with other soldiers in the courtyard after giving Elenwen a briefing of what he knew. She was able to ascertain from Malborn that the Dragonborn intended to break into the interrogation chamber. Thus far he’d left a trail of bodies in his wake. 

“We take him by surprise,” Elenwen said. “Flank the entrances.” She looked to Corimir. “Any pertinent last-minute information you might want to share, Corporal?” 

Corimir froze, blindsided. “He… uh. He used a pushing Shout to overtake my squadron, as well as one that disarmed us.” His throat felt swollen as all eyes in the room remained on him. “Stay out of his direct line of sight,” he added. 

Elenwen gave him a withering look before motioning for her soldiers to move forward. 

Corimir hesitated. His previous terror came rushing back with the reality that he was about to come face to face with the Nord. But still he tightened his grip on his sword and followed.

By the time he descended the stairs and stepped out onto the dungeon’s balcony, he was greeted by the first Shout. 

Below, three soldiers were thrown backwards against the stairs. The smell of ozone permeated the air as mages fired shock spells from the balconies, Elenwen’s commands barely audible over the crackle of magicka. Corimir slunk behind them, sliding along the wall and onto the adjoining landing. He cautiously descended the stairs, his eyes never leaving the Nord. He looked smaller than Corimir had remembered, though still massive in his own right. He brandished a grotesque-looking battleaxe, bellowing expletives at the mages on the balcony as he used the axe to half-block the spells. 

Another wave of electricity hit him from the opposite side as the flanking mages arrived. The Dragonborn let out a terrible roar. 

_ “KRII LUN AUS!” _

The mages on the first balcony went stumbling backwards with panicked cries, one falling to her knees and clutching her chest.

The Dragonborn let out a laugh. Then his gaze slid to where Corimir still stood on the stairs, paralyzed. It was strange to see his expression shift: confidence to confusion, then to recognition, his mouth twisting into a slow smile. He began to approach. 

Corimir stumbled backwards up the steps, driven by pure terror and the desperate need to flee. His head felt too light, his feet too heavy. He slipped and he fell against the top step, dropping his sword. The entire situation felt as if it were happening within a dream. A  _ nightmare. _ How had their plan failed already?

_ “FAAS RU MAAR.” _

Corimir jolted, his vision blurring; the edges of the room swirled with deep red shadows. The fear he felt doubled— a terror so primitive that he let out an involuntary wail as he continued to scramble backwards. It was only when he made it to the first landing and noticed that the Nord had stopped advancing that he realized something was off. That Shout… hadn’t come from the Dragonborn. 

The Nord’s axe hung limply by his side, his eyes wide in terror as he gazed up at the far balcony. Amidst the fearful haze that clouded Corimir’s mind, he managed to make out a figure perched atop the railing, bow drawn and trained on the Dragonborn. They loosed an arrow and it thunked into the Dragonborn’s right shoulder with a sickening squelch. 

He let out a roar of pain and fear, dropping the axe altogether. “How!?” he screamed. The veins in his neck bulged as if he were battling his own desire to flee, holding himself in place. Another arrow embedded itself in his left shoulder, eliciting another howl. 

The figure on the balcony leapt to the ground, rolling into a forward tumble and rushing towards the Dragonborn. Recognition dawned like a lightning strike. 

It was Elanwe.

She looked so small, charging the hulking Nord at full speed. He’d managed to tear one arrow from his shoulder with an angry bellow, throwing it off to the side. He lumbered forward and took a swipe at Elanwe with one meaty fist, but she dodged, catching him under the arm and using her momentum to swing her legs up and around his back, trapping his head between her thighs. The twist of her body pulled the Nord forward and down, slamming him into the ground in one fluid motion. 

“Now!” she screamed, and two of the mages cast paralysis spells. The Nord immediately went rigid, his skin shimmering with a sickly shade of green, his expression frozen in a mask of utter rage. 

It had all happened so fast. Corimir blinked, trying to make sense of the chain of events in his head. Elanwe looked up to catch his eye, her expression marred with concern and fear. They’d been so close to utter failure. 

He managed to stand and began to descend the steps on shaking legs. A flurry of agents rushed past him and surrounded the Dragonborn, dragging his stiff body into one of the holding cells. 

“Gag him!” Elanwe yelled over the clamor of voices. 

Across the room Rulindil lay dead against his desk, spine shattered by the massive axe wound splitting his back in two. Corimir’s face went cold, his mouth flooding with saliva as he stumbled into a corner and vomited. The wave of sickness was immediately followed by one of intense shame, and he stayed facing away, one hand braced against the wall as he spat the taste of sick from his mouth. 

A hand touched his shoulder. He jolted and turned around. It was Elanwe. 

“He’s restrained,” she said, her face pale and glistening with sweat.

Corimir just nodded. The shaking had returned. He burned with questions and yet had no voice with which to ask them. Had she actually used a dragon shout? How did she learn them? How long had she been able to do that? 

“What are you?” he asked instead. 

She gave him a pleading look, placing both hands on his shoulders. “You should get out of here.” 

“I don’t want to.”

“Yes. You do.” She squeezed his upper arms. “You should have never been made to face him.” 

“I can stay.” 

“This is an order, Corimir,” she said firmly. “Return to your room.” Her face softened marginally. “Please. I’ll come find you later.”

She was using her rank against him— her nebulous, undefined-but-higher-than-you rank. As if Corimir weren’t humiliated enough. He refused to budge. 

“Please.” Elanwe said again, giving him a small shake. “I’ll explain everything. Just  _ go.”  _

“Elanwe,” someone called from the holding cells. “The spell’s wearing off.”

“Cast another!” Elanwe barked over her shoulder. There was a flash of green from inside the first cell. She turned back to Corimir. “I’ll find you,” she said again, and then turned away, jogging over to the cell where they held the Dragonborn. 

Or was Elanwe the Dragonborn?

— 

The walk back to his room had been solemn. The bodies of the slain were being collected by grim-faced agents attempting to hide their terror and dismay beneath darkened hoods. Corimir kept his eyes to the ground. After what felt like an age, he pushed through the door of his bedchamber and into his room. It felt even colder and darker than it had in the days before. He shed his armor and changed into softer clothes, all the while feeling numb. 

Unsure of what to do next, he sat down on the edge of his overstuffed bed and stared blankly at the wall. Finally, his mind began to process.

Firstly, the Dragonborn had shown up at the Embassy on his own. That alone was a strange coincidence. It was a miracle they’d managed to act at all, and if Corimir hadn’t been at that party to see him, what might have happened then? How many more agents would be dead on this night? Perhaps Corimir would have even been recaptured… 

Despite knowing that the Nord was in chains and under the strict supervision of some of the Thalmor’s most talented mages, this brought little comfort. He was  _ close _ . He could  _ escape _ . And he would  _ find _ Corimir _. _

He got to his feet and automatically began to pace. 

Elanwe was also here, the mystery of her presence unraveling at the seams. Whoever she really was, surely with her around they could keep him subdued. 

Corimir sighed, stopping to rest a hand against a bedpost. He knew they wouldn’t kill the Nord— not right away, at least. The Dragonborn was a valuable resource. So for now, he must live. 

It was unclear how much time passed with Corimir stuck in his own head, mindlessly pacing his room, replaying the events from the day over and over again— imagining how he might have reacted differently, how he might have immediately alerted Elenwen, how he could have been the hero, charging in unafraid, skewering the Nord with his blade— but eventually there was a soft knock on his door that jarred him from his thoughts. When he answered, Elanwe was on the other side, still in her blood-spattered armor. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, her expression hollow and weary. 

“May I come in?” 

Corimir wordlessly moved out of the way, allowing her to pass, then quietly closed the door behind her. 

She trudged over to stand in front of the cold, empty fireplace, bracing her hands against the bannister and gazing down into the sooty void. “I’ll answer all of your questions now,” she said after a long moment. 

“Are you allowed to?” Corimir’s voice sounded odd to his own ears. He was surprised he could speak at all. 

She shook her head ‘no’ without looking at him. 

“How did you learn that dragon shout?”

Elanwe sighed, closing her eyes and breathing deeply through her nose. “Remember when I said…” She pushed away from the fireplace, turning to face him. “...that even Auri-El once made a mistake? When He was tricked by the Missing God.” 

Corimir hesitantly nodded, unsure of why she felt the need for a theology lesson.

“I… I think He made a second mistake. And very quickly realized His mistake.”

“What does this have to do with  _ anything?” _ Corimir snapped. “It was a simple question! Why are you turning it into a lecture!?” 

“Because I don’t know the answer!” she yelled back. 

Corimir recoiled and fell silent.

Elanwe was breathing heavily. “I don’t know  _ why _ or  _ how, _ I just know that…” She trailed off, running a hand over her eyes. “I got too close to a dying dragon and—” She gestured to her own body. “And my life changed… for good.” 

A long moment passed before Corimir could find his voice. “You’re a second Dragonborn?”

Elanwe shrugged in response, letting out a short, humorless laugh. “It would appear so.” 

Words died between them and a long stretch of silence followed. Despite having even more questions, Corimir had lost his voice. He simply stared. Elanwe’s usual cheery demeanor was completely gone, which somehow left him more unsettled. She looked frightened. 

“So, now you’re the only one,” Corimir pointed out. 

Elanwe shrugged again. “When they kill him, I will be. And I won’t deny that I’m very much looking forward to when they do. He’s…” She grimaced, lips curling in disgust as her eyes brimmed with tears. “He’s practically  _ raped _ his way through this country. I keep hearing story after story, and—” With a shuddering inhale she buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. Corimir’s mind told him to go comfort her, but his body remained frozen to the spot, paralyzed by his friend’s weakness. She’d seemed invincible up until now; the only tears he’d ever seen her shed were on his behalf. 

How many other victims had there been? 

When her silent weeping subsided, she looked to the door, then to Corimir, sniffing loudly once. “I want to be honest with you, but I just… I need you to hear me as a friend. Not a Thalmor soldier.” 

“Of course,” Corimir found himself saying instinctively, heart leaping into his throat. He wanted to be a friend to her— someone she could confide in, talk to, lean on— more than anything. He took a step towards her. 

She looked at him for a moment longer, brows drawn tight. “Corimir, I’m  _ terrified _ of what comes next.”

He nodded once. “I think that’s… perfectly reasonable. Given the situation. It’s a lot of power to wield.” 

“No, what I mean is…” She looked to the door again, then stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I’m terrified of the  _ Thalmor.” _

_ But you are Thalmor, _ Corimir wanted to point out. Then, on second thought, he wasn’t so sure if that made a difference. “Why’s that?” 

“Even if I  _ am _ able to defeat the World-Eater and not die a horrible, painful death in the process, what fate awaits me as the Dominion’s hero? They’ll want to use me as propaganda… as a means to  _ their _ end— keeping this civil war raging, keeping the Empire weak and reliant on the Dominion.” 

“The Empire  _ should _ rely on the Dominion. As for the civil war, that’s none of our concern. You’ve been bestowed a great honor. From a Nordic prophecy, perhaps, but has history not shown time and time again that we are eternally correcting the mistakes of Men?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m afraid I’m going to be made into a living Numidium!” 

Corimir stepped forward, placing his hands on her shoulders. “You carry an immense burden. But you said it yourself: Auri-El  _ chose _ you to correct His mistake.” He attempted a small smile, proud of his ability to be the calm one for once. “There is a reason for that, I’m sure of it. There is a plan.” 

“I wish I had your faith.” She sighed and rested her forehead against his shoulder. She sniffed again. “But how are you feeling? I didn’t mean to come in here and make it all about me.” 

“Yes, how selfish of you. Miracle of Auri-El that you are.” 

“Stop it.” Elanwe chuckled wearily, wrapping her arms around Corimir’s waist and pressing her face to his neck. 

“Eyuck, you’re disgusting,” he protested, half-heartedly pushing her away. “Go bathe before you cuddle me.” 

“I just need a hug,” she insisted without letting go. “And you didn’t answer my question.” 

Corimir paused, hands resting limply against Elanwe’s shoulders. “I’m fine,” he said after a moment. 

Elanwe let out a slow, warm breath against his neck. “Are you telling the truth?”

He resisted the urge to snap at her, gently biting his tongue, and shrugged. “I don’t know how to feel.” It was as close to honest as he felt like being.

“That’s fair.” She sighed and stepped away, giving his upper arms a light squeeze. “No matter what happens, I’ll keep you safe.” 

“That’s a bold promise,” Corimir couldn’t help but point out. He received a half-smile, half-grimace in return.   
  


Outside, the sun had slipped below the horizon, plunging the world into an inky twilight.  
  
  
  


—  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof. Finally. The Confrontation. 
> 
> I dreamed up so many different ways of how Kordin would get his ass handed to him. From Elanwe delivering some grandiose monologue after kicking him in the throat, to Corimir losing his shit and electrocuting the fuck out of him, to Elanwe using the "Become Ethereal" shout to literally rearrange Kordin's guts. The ways in which I have envisioned his capture and subsequent death are great and varied... 
> 
> But then, in the end, it was just... this. 
> 
> To echo Gwilin: Sometimes revenge doesn't feel as good as we think it will. 
> 
> \--
> 
> I keep debating on posting a chapter that's just art (both my own and some beautiful fanart that I've received), but I think I'm gonna save it until the end of the story. But, just to have something to share in the meantime, [here's a painting I did of Corimir after he lets his hair grow out again.](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/657703007210700810/806006741526642688/image0.png)
> 
> Thanks for all the amazing comments so far! I really love hearing from everyone who's reading this story. <3


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